


Fly Away Home

by plainchelle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Depression, I'll add as I go I guess, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Self-Destructive Tendencies, Slow Build, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plainchelle/pseuds/plainchelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles moves to Beacon Hills his senior year of high school, and there's just something weird about the police department and the strange group of kids he keeps seeing around school.</p><p>---</p><p>“Beacon Hills might look a picturesque small town, but it’s not. It’s crazy and fucked up and dangerous. We’ve had multiple FBI inquiries into the town and into the police departments, but they’ve just been run out without any more information than when they started. Scientists show up occasionally, trying to see if there’s something in the water. There isn’t, by the way,” she adds. “There’s just something around this area that attracts cults.”</p><p>Stiles isn't stupid. He knows Allison's twisting words and telling half-truths. And Allison knows exactly what's bringing the cults to Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just warning you, please don't expect steady updates. I've got some of the rest of this written, but it might be a while. This fic is probably going to be huge and ridiculous, so I have no idea what's going to come of it. Stiles' past is going to be similar to what I wrote in Heritage, but you don't need to read that to understand what's going on in this.
> 
> Seriously, though. I wish I could write a joke.

_Ladybug, Ladybug_  
 _Fly away home_  
 _Your house is on fire_  
 _And your children are gone_

There’s something eating at his brain. In his dim bedroom, two minutes from midnight, the nightmares paralyze him. Demons descend at the stroke of the clock and feast on his sanity. He wakes up screaming, his dad shushing him and rubbing his arm. After that, he doesn’t sleep. He listens to the rain patter against the glass pane window. The temporary curtains only partially block out the streetlight outside his window. He turns over in his sheets and burrows beneath them. Shadows flicker in the rain. At two in the morning, the thunder starts. Stiles doesn’t jump. He refuses to go back to sleep.

 

It’s still raining when he finally pads down the stairs to the kitchen at six. The stairwell has little nails at eye level where photographs are supposed to hang. The picture frames are on the coffee table at the bottom of the stairs from where they decided to call it a night. He starts the coffee maker and opens the sink window to air out the dusty room. The coffee percolates and spits as he rummages around the fridge for some eggs. The kitchen starts to smell like rain and dirt with hints of coffee. When his dad thumps down the stairs ten minutes later, Stiles has two plates of scrambled eggs and a cup full of coffee placed on the rickety table. For years, Stiles’ dad said he would fix the loose leg, but he hasn’t yet. Stiles suspects he never will.

 

“Ready for a new school?” his dad rasps through a sleep-hoarse voice. “I know it sucks to move your senior year of high school.”

 

Stiles poked at his eggs, watching the rainwater collect on the open windowsill. “Dad, I didn’t exactly have friends in Callusa Valley. Most of the people at school called me a snitch and a cop’s kid.” They called him crazy too, but Stiles keeps that to himself.

 

His dad pauses, hand hovering over the milk carton. “Well, maybe here will work in your favor, then.” He pours a healthy amount of milk into his coffee. “Are you okay from last night? I know this move has been pretty stressful and last minute. We can wait a day or two if you don’t want to start school immediately.”

 

Stiles snatches the milk and takes a swig straight from the carton (“Other people drink that too, son.”). “I’m going to school.” He defiantly swallows another gulp of milk. “They’re nightmares, Dad. They’re harmless. I mean, didn’t Dr. Henderson say a change in routine was bound to bring them back? I’d say moving is a pretty big change in routine.”

 

The rain finally starts trickling in through the window screen when his dad looks up from his near empty mug. He glances longingly at the coffee pot before hauling himself out of the chair and pouring another cup. He takes a sip and turns back to his son. “I needed to get out of there. We needed to get out of there. You were miserable, so I took the next job that came along. Beacon Hills is a nice town with good people. They just need someone who knows how to run a police department.”

 

Stiles nods and scoops up his last bite of eggs. “I know. I’m not complaining, Dad. I’m just saying it’s not something to worry about.” He picks up the empty plates and sets them in the sink. When he turns around, he spies his dad gently running his fingers along the table’s busted up leg. Stiles quickly moves into the unpacked living room. He grabs one of the boxes labeled “Stiles” and hauls it upstairs.

 

He drops the box onto his unmade bed. His room is bare, the posters he had up in his old room still packed away somewhere. It’s still dark out as he flips open his pocketknife. “Please be clothes,” he says and cuts the tape. It’s comic books. “Damnit.”

 

“That’s why you label boxes.”

 

Stiles jumps and knicks his finger on the knife blade. His dad stands in the doorway holding another box, his face apologetic. Stiles sucks his thumb and waves at the box on the bed. “I did label it,” he says around the digit. “See?” He jabs the knife at the sharpie “Stiles” on the cardboard.

 

His dad rolls his eyes and sets the box down next to the door. This box is also labeled “Stiles” but with a “Cl.” underneath it. “Try this one,” he says and heads back across the tiny hallway to his own room. Stiles sucks on his finger and cuts open the new box. In it are his jeans.

 

“Thanks Dad,” he shouts.

 

Ten minutes later, his dad knocks on his door. Stiles opens it to face his now uniformed father. “Well, don’t you look nice,” Stiles says and pulls on a plaid flannel shirt. “Ten bucks you get someone’s number by the end of your shift.”

 

His dad snorts. “Want me to take you to school, or do you think you can find it on your own?” he asks finishing up the buttons on his shirt. He dangles the keys at eyelevel, and Stiles pauses for a second before shaking his head.

 

“I have GPS on my phone, and I’d really like to not show up in a cop car on my first day.” Stiles smiles.

 

His dad nods, motioning Stiles forward. “Alright, you make a decent case,” he says, engulfing his son in a hug. “Have a good day.” He kisses Stiles on the forehead. “And call me if you need anything. Okay?” Stiles nods. “Okay. I’m going to find you a doctor today so we can get that set up.” He pats his son on the back. “Get going. You don’t want to be late.”

 

Stiles ducks under his father’s outstretched arm. “Alright, Dad. I’ll let you know how it goes.” He jumps down the steps two at a time. He grabs his car keys on the table at the bottom of the stairs, the keys half buried underneath photos he refuses to look at. He’s almost out the door when his dad calls him back.

 

“Meet at the station for dinner,” he says and hesitates. “You look handsome, son.”

 

Stiles opens the door. “Of course I look handsome. I’m your son. I’ll see you at dinner, Dad.” Then he walks out the front door. He makes it to his jeep without getting too soaked. His sneakers do manage to find the one puddle in the driveway, though. The October rain is cold on his bare forearms as he jumps into the front seat. The jeep starts on the third try.

 

Beacon Hills is a small town with a lot of money. Their house is an old one on the edge of town near the highway. The rest of the houses look like new developments and expanding suburbia. The main drive down Mechanic portray kitschy shops Stiles just knows contain overpriced unnecessary knickknacks. At the end of Mechanic, he turns left through the nicer neighborhoods. He swears he sees a Porsche on one of the driveways. He tries to hold in a snort; his car’s radio barely works, and he sees a Porsche. The school is just down another left turn. He’s tempted to turn right and head into the preserve, but Stiles knows ditching the first day will only worry his dad more.

 

It’s a good fight, though. He’s never lived anywhere near woods before, and he really wants to see what’s in the trees. School just barely wins out. He parks his jeep with half an hour to spare before the first bell rings. The older woman at the front desk seems friendly enough as she prints him out his schedule. Stiles peeks back out through the office windows. The school is huge. His previous school had been the size of a tiny office building with small classes and few people. This place is like a Wal-Mart: huge and unwieldy. The receptionist starts drawing him a map that spans several sticky notes. “We’re small in people, not in size,” she says. She draws on another sticky note and numbers it. Stiles listens as she pulls out a highlighter and talks him through all the ways to get to his classes. He tunes out after just a minute. Finally she asks, “Any questions?”

 

Stiles jumps. He shakes his head and smiles. The sticky note map is covered in highlighter as he takes them and his schedule. He’s almost out of the office when she calls him back. “Sorry, honey, but there’s a note here that you need to talk to the counselor,” she says with false cheer. He sighs and waits for her to haul herself out of the form fitting swivel chair. They work their way through the offices and into the one with the sign “Mrs. Harper.” The receptionist gives him a wave, but he sees the steel glint in her eye.

 

He knocks on the open door and walks in. Mrs. Harper is a younger looking woman with a full pressed skirt and suit. “Hello,” she says and points to the round plastic table with waiting room chairs missing just a little bit of stuffing. “Please sit.”

 

Stiles sits.

 

Mrs. Harper takes the other chair across from him. “We’ve spoken to your previous school about the arrangements integrating you into the classrooms here. Each of your teachers is aware of your IEP and adjustments have been made to meet those needs. We do offer additional resources regarding your specified education plan, if you need anything. Have you looked over your schedule yet?” He voice clicks like a recording.

 

Stiles nods.

 

She doesn’t smile. “I’ll show you to your first class and to the cafeteria. The cafeteria is a central location for the school. I know you were given a tour yesterday when you and your dad came by, but the halls can be a bit difficult to maneuver.” They walk through the office, the receptionist too busy typing to look up from the screen. Stiles waves at her anyway. Mrs. Harper keeps moving. “Now,” she says, “we’re very structured here. We have and enforce a zero tolerance policy.” They stop at a set of double doors. The sign above the door reads ‘cafeteria.’ She seems to think that’s good enough as they start walking again. They stop at a classroom door. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask. Let us know if you need anything. Everyone in the office is eager to make this transition as smooth as possible.” Her voice finally hitches on those words, the faintest hint of inflection seeping in.

 

Stiles clenches his fist and gives his best smile. They’re afraid him, he thinks. Good. “Thanks,” he says and pushes through the door to the classroom.

 

Since he’s so early to class, he has his pick of desks. The teacher is writing on the chalkboard as Stiles slides into one of the seats up at the front and closest to the door. Blown up posters of famous novels cover almost the entirety of the room. The Great Gatsby eyes stare into him and Stiles quickly blinks. There is a map off to the side with pinpoints in it. Stiles looks closer and notes that it’s a county map. The wall to the side is made up almost completely of windows. He drops his backpack down and prepares to talk to the teacher when he stiffens up as three people walk in, talking loudly. They ignore him and take up the row closest to the windows. Stiles relaxes in small increments. It has been too long since he’s been in a public school that other students entering a classroom spooks him.

 

He walks up to the teacher, who turns around. The man is in his late thirties, in a tight-fitting sweater that looks almost too expensive to be bought on a teacher’s salary. His eyes are sharp with a tint of predator. When he smiles, it cuts. “You must be Mr. Stilinski.” His voice is soft, but that only puts Stiles more on edge. “I’m Mr. Hale. What can I help you with, Gaweł?”

 

Stiles swallows and wishes he had turned into the preserve. “I go by Stiles, Mr. Hale.”

 

That smile is a razorblade. “I prefer to call students by their given names, not nicknames.”

 

Stiles stiffens and tries to keep calm. “My mother gave me both names. I go by Stiles, sir. I wanted to ask if there was anything I needed to do in order to keep pace with the rest of the class since I’m coming in so late into the semester.”

 

“Well, Stiles.” He says the name with a hint of both humor and disdain. “We’ve just started on _1984_. Have you read it?” Stiles nods and Mr. Hale’s smile shows bright white teeth. “Then you’ll be alright with the discussion today. Have you taken an AP class before?”

 

Stiles brings his hands together and pinches his thumb. The teacher’s gaze boring through him makes him uncomfortable. “No, but I have taken classes at Mercer County Community College. I think I already have some form of English credit, but I don’t know what.”

 

Mr. Hale hmms. “You’re from Callusa Valley, right?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles says, his voice losing strength.

 

“I didn’t suspect that to be such a small school that you aren’t used to other students in the classroom,” he says. He taps the chalk against the metal shelf underneath the board. “Is that why you were jumpy just a moment ago?”

 

Stiles shrinks and rubs his thumb against the palm of his hand. “I’m just not used to a school this size. Moving is stressful, I just don’t think I’m used to it.” Mr. Hale narrows his eyes at him and smiles even wider.

 

“I don’t need an explanation,” Mr. Hale says in the same false cheer everyone at the school seems to possess. “I was just concerned. It seems like this class won’t be overwhelming for you to follow, particularly with your previous experience taking college level courses. I’ll let you know tomorrow if there is anything you should do to make up the missed work from this quarter or if I’ll just excuse you from the work.”

 

Stiles remains silent for another moment. It appears that Mr. Hale has started to talk without realizing that Stiles is still standing there. He goes back to his selected seat and pulls out a book. “Oh, Mr. Stilinski.” Stiles looks up as Mr. Hale stands just too close to his desk. “You should probably go to the library and check out a copy of _1984_. Do you have your ID?” Without waiting for a response, he turns to the group of three. “Miss Argent, would you be willing to show Stiles here to the library? He needs to get a copy of _1984_.” He turns back to Stiles. “Allison will be happy to show you.”

 

Allison doesn’t seem all that happy at first. She turns to Mr. Hale and gives him a dirty look. He only smiles. Allison Argent has a kind face with a hint of softness, but Stiles sees the ferocity hidden underneath the skirts and floral patterns of lace. “Come on,” she says with the first truly genuine smile Stiles has seen all day. “The library’s not too difficult to find. I promise.” She waves to her friends and leads the way.

 

Stiles isn’t sure if she’s trying to engage him in conversation or not, he’s so keyed up at seeing so many people wandering aimless around the halls. Allison notices. “Was your old school really that small?” she says with a slight laugh. Stiles nods. She keeps talking. “I moved here a couple years ago from San Francisco, so I think I had the exact opposite freak out than you. I kept wondering where all the people where, why there weren’t any drug deals going down in the bathrooms. Beacon Hills doesn’t have a drug problem.”

 

Stiles senses there’s something more to that last statement, but he leaves it. He pulls out his phone to text his dad. _Can you speed that dr’s appt up? I think my meds need some messing with._

 

They make it another couple steps to the library before his phone buzzes. _What’s up, kiddo?_

 

Stiles taps back. _Nothin. Think I’m being paranoid._ When he looks up from his phone, he finds Allison talking to the librarian. The library itself is nice, a little larger than his old school’s, but definitely smaller than the Callusa Valley public library. Stiles spots a movable chalkboard with a four students talking quietly by and writing on. One of the three boys looks up with a dopey grin on his face and waves enthusiastically. Stiles almost waves back when he sees Allison raise her hand.

 

Stiles checks out a copy of _1984_ and walks with Allison back to the classroom. The room has a lot more people in it with barely over five minutes left before the bell rings at 8. Even with the extra time, most people are sitting quietly and reading or looking over notes. Mr. Hale seems to be such a presence that no one dares anger him. Stiles’ bag is off to the side near the door and another student is in his desk.

 

Allison sees what happened and grabs his bag for him. “Here. You’ll just sit near us.” She sets his bag down at the desk in the front row.

 

He finds his voice just long enough to thank her.

 

When the bell rings, everyone promptly looks as Mr. Hale walks in front of his desk. “We have a new student,” he says and turns to Stiles. Mr. Hale’s teeth look a little too much like fangs for Stiles’ comfort. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

 

Stiles holds up a hand and almost speaks when Mr. Hale motions him to stand. He takes a deep breath, noticing Mr. Hale’s face twitch almost in concern. “I’m Stiles,” he says quietly. He sees the people in the back rows closest to the door strain to hear him. “I moved from Callusa Valley.”

 

He’s about to sit down and look out the window for the rest of the fifty minutes of class when a kid in the middle row asks, “Whatcha doin’ in Beacon Hills?”

 

He speaks louder. “My dad’s been transferred to the sheriff’s department.”

 

Another kid interrupts. “I thought Sheriff Parrish was taking over.”

 

Stiles remembers that name from when he asked if he knew whom he’d been working with. His dad told him that the old sheriff died and that the town had elected what looked to be a teenaged boy into office. “He is,” Stiles says. “My dad’s here to train officers and to help Sheriff Parrish.”

 

“Holy shit, kid,” the first student says. “The sheriff’s department is cursed. Your dad’s gonna die.”

 

Stiles holds his breath and counts to ten as Mr. Hale smoothly intervenes. “Greenberg, why don’t you hold your tongue and think about what you’re saying? I believe the only person willing to listen or care about what you have to say is Coach Finstock, and even that might be pushing it.”

 

The entire class falls silent from the murmuring that started as soon as Greenberg spoke. Stiles collapses into his chair and reaches for his rescue inhaler. The group of people closest to him watches him in concern as he gulps down the medication. Mr. Hale throws him a pitying glance before starting the day. “By now, you should have read Book 1. Luckily for those of you who didn’t, there will not be a reading quiz today.” Stiles swears the girl next to him relaxes so much she pees a little. “However, this only means that you will be embarrassed by your inability to contribute to the discussion we will be having today. The people in your row, this means the people in front of you and behind you, will be your discussion group. I have written eight questions on the board pertaining to the reading. If I hear you deviate your discussion from _1984_ , you will be writing all your responses to share with the rest of the class. Go.”

 

Stiles turns to see that his group consists of Allison and her two friends. The redhead, no strawberry blonde, flashes him a smile that terrifies him just as much as Mr. Hale’s. “I’m Lydia,” she says, popping her gum. Once upon a time, Stiles might have fallen in love with her because she could intimidate him so, but now he looks at her with admiration. She’s smart, Stiles can tell, from the cool indifference and the defiance in her posture.

 

“Danny,” the other introduces himself, even holding his hand out for Stiles to shake. Stiles hesitates briefly before putting his hand in the other’s. “We don’t bite, I promise.” When Allison and Lydia snort, Stiles knows there’s an inside joke he doesn’t get.

 

Mr. Hale places his hand on Lydia’s desk, making Stiles jump. “So nice to hear you’re making friends, Stiles.” He still says the name with a hint of mocking disdain. “But let’s please focus on the task at hand.”

 

Stiles watches him make a beeline for where Greenberg and a couple others are whispering over a phone. Lydia laughs. “Alright, question one: ‘ _1984_ ’s philosophy and basis for dystopia is that fear is the best control of people and society; however, another dystopian novel _Brave New World_ ’s philosophy and basis for dystopia is that what people love controls them best. Which do you think is the more potent philosophy? Explain your case either way using examples from the text.’”

 

He tunes out his group as they talk through the question, thinking back to when his mother read him _Brave New World_. He was seven then and didn’t understand half of what was going on in the book. He’s always meant to re-read it. Someone calls his name and he looks up. The group watches him expectantly. “Fear,” he says. “You control someone by fear. The best way to control a person is make them afraid of themselves. It doesn’t matter how much they find pleasure in the world, if they’re afraid to be happy, then you can’t control them with pleasure.”

 

Allison’s eyebrows crease in concern as Lydia grimaces. Danny almost reaches to comfort him before aborting his action. Lydia clears her throat after a second of silence and moves on to question two. “If you were Winston, how might you undermine the government?”

 

“I wouldn’t,” Stiles says. They wait for him to add, but he doesn’t. Fighting a government seems like too much effort is probably not the answer they’re looking for. They work their way through the other six questions on the board with little input from him. He keeps tapping pencil on the desk and trying to remember what happened in _Brave New World_.

 

When he feels Lydia brush against his leg, he jumps. She’s going through his backpack, and he’s just about to grab it back from her when she pulls out his schedule. “Hey,” he snaps, but she rolls her eyes at him.

 

“I just want to check your schedule, relax.” Mr. Hale looks over at their group, but Lydia growls. Stiles’ anxiety spikes, and he prays he didn’t just hallucinate that. This time, Danny does lay a hand gently on his forearm. “Oh, nice,” Lydia says. “You have biology with my mom next. I can show you if you like.” He doesn’t know if he nods. He doesn’t know if it matters.

 

Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket. When he looks up, he spots Mr. Hale gazing at him. He doesn’t answer his phone all hour.

 

When the bell rings, Mr. Hale calls Lydia back. “Just wait outside,” she says and flounces up to where Mr. Hale sits at his desk. Stiles goes to wait in the hall and check his phone.

 

There’s a text from his dad: _Appt. Wed. @ 9. Dr. Henderson recc’d him._ Stiles sighs, more thankful to hear from him than he would admit. God bless a police officer’s brevity.

 

He hears the voices in the classroom. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he does. “—helped me come back from the dead,” Mr. Hale is saying.

 

“So did I. The difference is, I’m not afraid to bury you again,” Lydia hisses. Stiles hopes he misheard that.

 

“That kid’s dad is in for Hell. This isn’t some sleepy town in the middle of nowhere.” There’s a pause. “I still think the kid’s hiding something.”

 

“For goodness’ sake, Peter. We’re all hiding something.”

 

“I still say to keep an eye on him.”

 

“You’re not my alpha, Peter. But I’ll be sure to pass the message along that a scared shitless little kid is going to destroy everything.”

 

“Don’t twist my words, sweetheart. Now get going. I think boy wonder’s about to have another panic attack.”

 

Stiles counts his fingers and his breaths. He hears heels clack against the tile and the door opens. She huffs and throws an obscene gesture back at the teacher. Without looking to see Mr. Hale’s expression, Lydia starts dragging Stiles down the hallway.

 

“What did he want?” Stiles asks.

 

Lydia refuses to look at him. “To bitch me out for getting us off topic during the discussion.”

 

Stiles decides he’s glad she doesn’t tell him the truth. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t have the energy to care. “Does he, I dunno, make your skin crawl? Because he’s just a bit on the scary side.”

 

She stops walking dead in the middle of the hallway. Someone collides into him and Stiles stumbles forward a step, ignoring the indignant shout of whoever ran into him. “Look at me,” Lydia says. She waits until he makes eye contact. “Honey, if Peter Hale does not make you uncomfortable, then there is something very wrong with you. But you also need to remember that he’s mostly harmless.”

 

Stiles swallows. “The qualifier isn’t helping me feel better.”

 

Lydia snorts. She starts walking again, her grip on his arm grounding him through the sea of students. “He likes to think he’s scarier than he actually is. The one thing about him that isn’t harmless is that he is exactly as smart as he thinks. And he’s pretty damn smart.” They stop outside an open door. “Here’s biology.” She peeks into the room. “Hi, Mom,” she says. The teacher waves. “Have fun.” Without further ado, Lydia walks away.

 

Stiles hopes she walks him to class tomorrow too because he honestly has no idea how he got here. This time, when he enters, most of the seats are already taken. Stiles spies Greenberg in a lacrosse state shirt from his English class. Unconsciously, he drifts as far away from Greenberg as he can. He ends up next to the boy he almost waved at in the library.

 

The boy in question is deeply involved in a text message conversation that puts that same dopey grin on his face that Stiles has seen once before. His chin is a bit lopsided and he has a knack of scratching his jaw line like there’s something just underneath the surface that’s bothering him. Stiles just hopes he’s not sexting. “Scott,” the boy says and waves. It takes a second before Stiles realizes that the boy just introduced himself.

 

“I’m Stiles,” he says. The boy nods. “You know Allison?” he asks because his dad would probably at least like to see him put in some effort.

 

Apparently, that was the wrong question to ask. “Yeah,” the boy says, eyes unfocused. “We’re going to get married and have lots of kids.”

 

Stiles blinks. “That’s a bit creepy.”

 

Scott snorts and waves his hand, almost throwing his phone. “It’s totally cool. We talked about it and everything.”

 

Stiles’ eyebrow quirks. “Still a bit creepy.”

 

Scott laughs, shrugs, and goes back to his phone. Stiles almost starts to relax when there’s a tap on his shoulder. He recognizes the girl from the library, her face sharp and healthy. Her hair is curled in ways Stiles thought almost impossible. “Wild woman hair” is what his mother would call it. Scott and the girl watch him in near concern as he pulls in a slightly shaky breath.

 

Then the girl clicks her tongue. “Do you mind?” she asks and motions to the seat. Stiles’ stomach drops and he hastily picks up his backpack before Scott assertively guides him back into the chair.

 

“Find somewhere else to sit today, Erica,” Scott says, his demeanor shifting. He turns to Stiles. “It’s fine. Besides, this way, you won’t have to worry about being stuck with the idiots in the class come lab time.”

 

Stiles doesn’t answer. He reaches into his pocket for his phone and texts his dad. _Can I skip art and meet you for lunch?_ When he looks up, the teacher is standing in front of him. He can see the family resemblance, but where Lydia is defiant, this woman is empathetic. He carefully puts his phone on the table.

 

“I’m Ms. Martin,” she says and hands him the syllabus. “I see you’ve already met my daughter.” Stiles nods. “I promise you she’s not as scary as she looks.”

 

Scott snorts beside him, and Mrs. Martin pierces him with a glare so hard that Stiles knows he never wants to cross Lydia if she is anything like her mother.

 

“Right now, we’re working through the systems of the body. Now, from the initial information Mrs. Harper gave me and from what Mr. Hale just sent over in an email, you’ve taken college courses before, yes?” She pauses until Stiles affirms this. “Well, while this is a college course, you’ve come in too late to get credit. Are you sure you still want to be in this class? If not, I can send you down to the office so they can transfer you appropriately.”

 

The phone buzzes and skates across the table before stopping. “My IEP recommends I take a heavy course load. I’ll get bored otherwise. When I get bored, I usually start failing,” he says. To his surprise, Mrs. Martin huffs out a laugh.

 

“You’re just like my daughter,” she says, and the bell rings.

 

Stiles is forced to introduce himself again. This time he doesn’t even make it farther than standing up before Greenberg interrupts. “Dude’s dad is a cop.”

 

He sees three faces freeze in ill-covered terror: Scott, Erica, and even Mrs. Martin. Stiles stands, rooted to his perch on the tile. He hovers above the class, can’t even choke out his name, before he collapses back into the chair. Stiles picks up his phone and doesn’t even care that Mrs. Martin disapproves.

 

His dad’s text says, _Please try._ And Stiles can’t handle anything anymore. He makes it out the classroom before he hears a surprised “Mr. Stilinski!” follow him. As soon as he makes it to the hall, his breathing grows even weaker. He doesn’t know where he is in an empty sea of hallways, closed doors, and lockers. It looks abandoned, and he’s drowning in it.

 

There’s a hand on his shoulder that he doesn’t register and a push of the waves that wash him up in an empty stall of the bathroom. The panic attack bubbling beneath the surface rattles from his bones and consumes him. He stumbles to the ground and buries his face in his knees. The tiles are cold as he curls up on them, focusing on the temperature, on nothing at all. He couldn’t even last a day.

 

That hand rubs small circles on his back. His lungs won’t work. He knows he’s crying, just as he knows there’s no point in trying to stop himself from crying. He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He doesn’t want to know. He knows someone’s talking to him. He doesn’t know what the voice is saying.

 

He’s scared. He’s overwhelmed. He’s hopeless. He has so many emotions running through his head. He still can’t breathe.

 

When he finally rattles in a breath, the circles pause for just a second. Both of them are in the large stall in the bathroom, the door closed. There’s a tampon box on the wall and Stiles gets a look at the person who shoved him into the restroom. Allison’s face is set and calm. She helps him into a sitting position, leaning him up against the wall. The white painted cinderblocks are cool.

 

“Scott told me you ran out of Bio,” Allison says. She shuffles to sit next to him, knocking their knees together. “My dad’s a cop, too.”

 

“What happened?” Stiles asks, not sure how much he wants her to answer. But Greenberg says it with perverted amazement, and everyone else cows and pities.

 

She takes a deep breath and then it’s too late. “Most of them have died. It started a couple years ago when a kid massacred the sheriff’s department. We’ve been working on improving our training since, but I think they just didn’t want to kill this sick teenager. That’s when my dad started working with them. He didn’t really get involved until later. He used to sell them weapons, but then he started including training with all the weapons he was selling. A little less than a year later, a few cops showed up dead, and it looked like there was someone targeting the department. She turned out to be through and through crazy. Then, a little after Halloween last year, a couple people dressed up as ninjas went through the department again and killed everyone they could.

 

“Beacon Hills might look a picturesque small town, but it’s not. It’s crazy and fucked up and dangerous. We’ve had multiple FBI inquiries into the town and into the police departments, but they’ve just been run out without any more information than when they started. Scientists show up occasionally, trying to see if there’s something in the water. There isn’t, by the way,” she adds. “There’s just something around this area that attracts cults.” Allison hesitates and shifts on the cold ground. She perks up a little. “But Parrish has been here since forever. He knows how to handle it. He and my dad won’t let anything happen to your dad, I promise.” She slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and squeezes. It feels comforting. It feels safe.

 

Stiles counts his fingers, carefully tapping each one to his kneecap and whispering the times he feels the gentle grounding pressure. “What happened to the last sheriff?” he asks.

 

“Shot in a domestic violence dispute with his wife,” Allison says. When he looks up at her, her face is set and unmoving. “With all the shit in this town, he dies from that. Parrish is a good guy. He’s smart, too. Come on.” She stands up and straightens her skirt. “Let’s skip the rest of second hour.”

 

Stiles isn’t stupid. That’s the thing. He knows Allison wouldn’t lie to him about what happened with the sheriff and the sheriff’s department. He also knows she didn’t tell him everything. He knows she hesitated and twisted words. And Allison knows exactly what’s bringing the cults to Beacon Hills.

 

It’s a mystery, but Stiles can’t bring himself to care about it. That’s when Stiles knows he needs help.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow Stiles manages to make it through the rest of the school day. He apologizes to Ms. Martin for running out, but she just pats him on the shoulder. Stiles wonders if sympathy and condescension are synonyms.

 

He’s sure word gets around to the rest of the teachers. They don’t ask him to stand up in class or introduce himself. They don’t call attention to him at all. His math teacher ignores him completely. Stiles is fine with that, and he disappears a little into the classes. He occasionally sees Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Danny throughout his schedule. He doesn’t see Greenberg again.

 

At 3:30, the bell rings. He hides in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, hoping no one comes in and bothers him. Nobody does. The parking lot is clearing out by the time he makes it to his jeep. It’s still raining some, just a light drizzle that gets in his clothes. Before he makes it to the back of the parking lot, he sees Erica jump into a black sports car and speed away.

 

He decides to save searching through the preserve for a day when there’s no chance the roads might be washed out. Instead, he drives around town.

 

Beacon Hills is small and while it looks rich initially, Stiles can see some of the cracks. It’s a little too rural to be considered a suburb of anywhere, and he starts to drive through another town that shares its Southern border with Beacon Hills before he realizes and turns around. The warehouses that look like they were abandoned after the Cold War sit right at the edge of town. Stiles figures that’s the northern border. The eastern border is the preserve. Down to the south are the high school and the richer part of town. The highway near the Stilinski’s new house seems to be the western border. There’s a gas station just outside town with three black SUVs filling up.

 

Stiles uses his phone to direct him to the sheriff’s department on the northwestern corner of town. By the time he pulls into the station, it’s nearly five. He feels calmer now that he’s away from people.

 

The woman at the front desk smiles at him and asks what she can help him with. He tries to keep his eyes on her and not wonder where all the officers before her died. “I’m looking for my dad,” he says. “Skylar Stilinski.”

 

Her nametag reads Wallace. He wonders if she has children. He hands over his driver’s license when she asks for it. He follows her when she swipes her keycard and motions him into the offices. It’s small and relatively slow moving. For such a seemingly dangerous town, everyone in the office seems a bit lethargic.

 

There are four officers hanging around desks. The sheriff’s separate office is in the back with the curtains drawn. Two of the officers are huddled around a computer, whispering. One types in a stilted manner that comes with filing paper work. Stiles spots his dad at an unpacked desk near the sheriff’s closed door. Skylar is talking to the other officer across the desk from him.

 

When Stiles approaches, they both lull in conversation. The other officer is in a warden outfit with different badges outfitting his green button-up uniform. His boots are propped up on the desk, dried mud caked to the bottoms. Stiles classifies him as a lumberjack from the beard alone. He takes the swivel chair next to his dad when Skylar finally talks. “Stiles, this is Derek Hale. He’s the fish and game warden for the area. Derek, this is my son Stiles.”

 

Derek gives him a quiet smile and Stiles awkwardly raises his hand. He asks, “Are you related to the English teacher at the high school?”

 

“He’s my uncle.” Derek nods.

 

Stiles sneaks a glance at his dad. Skylar seems to still be perfectly fine after working for only almost a day. “Your uncle’s a bit creepy.”

 

“Stiles,” his dad warns, but Derek snorts.

 

“Yes, he is.”

 

“So,” his dad says, leaning forward in his chair. The old chair creaks a little in protest at moving. “How was your day?”

 

“Fine,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair. He tries to make the motion look casual and not defensive, but he doesn’t quite succeed. Derek Hale raises an eyebrow at him.

 

His dad nods like he knows Stiles is lying. “Make any friends?”

 

Stiles shrugs. “I met Allison Argent. She says her dad works here too.” His dad makes a noncommittal noise at hearing the last name.

 

Derek intercuts. “He’s a good officer. Good person, too. His daughter is one of the best people I know.”

 

At that, Stiles swivels his chair towards the game warden. The warden’s picking at one of the buttons on his shirt, not quite focusing on anything. “How do you know her?” Stiles asks.

 

“I’ve met her through Chris a few times. And I work with Dr. Deaton, the vet. His assistant is Scott McCall, and Scott and Allison are madly in love.” Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“I think I met Scott, too. The first thing he said to me was that he and Allison were going to get married and have babies together,” Stiles says.

 

Skylar’s jaw drops a little and Derek laughs. “That sounds like him. Met Lydia Martin yet?” Stiles nods. “She comes in here a few times. She has a bit of a knack of stumbling onto crime scenes and dead bodies.”

 

Skylar shoots Stiles a look that indicates disapproval. Stiles ignores his dad. “The fact that your dead body ratio is high enough that it’s possible for a teenage girl to stumble upon multiple is rather disturbing.”

 

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but he just closes it and shrugs instead. The sheriff’s door opens and a young man pokes his head out. Skylar sits up and Derek takes his shoes off the desk. The two officers in the corner stop talking and look up. When Stiles heard there was a new sheriff, he didn’t expect the sheriff to look just barely out of high school. His anxiety creeps back up slowly, and Derek shoots his a questioning look. “Derek,” Sheriff Parrish says. “Chris just called in that there are a couple hunters heading into town up Highway 12. He’s asking you to meet him up at the preserve.” Derek nods and stands. Sheriff continues. “Take the truck. He says it’s pretty messy up there, and I don’t want you getting stuck in any mud.”

 

Derek levels a look at the sheriff that borders on deadly. He shoulders on his green jacket and snatches the keys from the air when Sheriff Parrish throws them. “When have I ever gotten stuck in the mud?” Before the sheriff can respond, the warden is halfway out the office.

 

When the sheriff moves towards Skylar’s desk, Stiles mimics his dad and sits up straight in his chair. The sheriff looks too soft to protect anyone, let alone his dad. He doesn’t care if the rest of the officers show him respect. Parrish hasn’t done anything for the Stilinskis to earn Stiles’ respect. “This Stiles?” Parrish asks. “Your dad’s told me a bit about you. Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of him.”

 

Stiles digs his nails into his jeaned thigh. “Considering the track record of this place and the fact that you look twelve, don’t take it personally if I don’t believe you.” He can see his dad roll his eyes and muffle his exasperation.

 

Sheriff Parrish just barks out a laugh. “Your dad did say something about authority issues.” He turns to Skylar. “Could we chat in my office real quickly?”

 

Skylar nods and stands. Before following, he turns to Stiles. “I’ll probably be here for a few more hours. There’s a burger joint just down the road. Why don’t you get us some dinner?”

 

Stiles manages to get out one protest about high cholesterol before the sheriff’s office door clicks closed. He hears the lock turn. The other two officers are back to hunching over the computer screen. While he’s making his way back out the office, he hears one say, “—fucking Agent McCall. Sift through this shit report.”

 

Deputy Wallace waves at him as he leaves.

 

It’s not raining anymore, and the clouds look like they’re breaking up. He pauses when he gets into the parking lot. Parked next to his jeep is the Camaro he remembers associating with Erica. There’s no one in the car, and he doesn’t recall seeing her in the small station. He climbs into the jeep and turns left.

 

The burger joint is a local mom’n’pop shop. The girl behind the counter keeps asking him questions about why nobody’s seen him before. He answers in vague remarks. When she hands him his food, she puts a plastic container of red sauce in the brown paper bag. “It’s our specialty sauce,” she says and winks.

 

The Camaro is still in the parking lot when he drives back up to the station. Out of curiosity, he sneaks a glance into the backseat. There’s a large pile of dirt on the ground and what looks to be a couple of roses growing in the car. “What the fuck?” Stiles says and tries to get a closer look. He jumps back when a hand hits the top of the car. It’s a slight relief when he sees Danny and not Erica.

 

Danny winces in regret. “Sheriff Parrish likes to pull us over a lot to make sure we’re not growing weed in the backseat.”

 

Stiles stares. For a moment, he can’t think of anything to say. Stupidly, he comes up with: “But why roses?”

 

“Bio experiment for school,” Danny says. “After the fourth time he pulled either me or Erica over, we came to an agreement that every week, we’d come by the department so they could run the drug dogs by it.”

 

Stiles nods, still not understanding. “Oh. How do you know Erica? Because you’re nice and she’s—”

 

“Terrifying?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Danny laughs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “We’re kind of working on this experiment together. It’s through the community college, so even though we’re not in class together, we can both get credit for the assignment. We’re doing an experiment with carbon footprints. It’s not our car so we take turns driving it.”

 

“Who gave you the car?” Stiles asks. It’s a nice car, and he can’t see reason to get rid of it.

 

“Derek,” Danny says. “His sister gave it to him, I think.”

 

“Game warden Derek?”

 

“The very same,” Danny says. He taps his fingers on the hood of the car. The key clinks against the metal, and Stiles hopes it doesn’t scratch the paint. “This car isn’t exactly useful for driving on the preserve roads, so he lent it to us for the duration of the experiment.”

 

Stiles looks the car over. “It looks to be in good condition. Why’d she give it to him instead of sell it? Why didn’t he sell it?”

 

There’s a pause that hangs in the air, the kind of pause that happens when someone oversteps their bounds and stumbles on a subject taboo. Danny pulls in a deep breath. “She left it to him in her will,” he says. Stiles flinches. Then Danny points into the back parking lot at an SUV. “Derek drives that monstrous atrocity back there.”

 

Stiles says, “My mom used to call them suburban assault vehicles.”

 

Danny snorts. He opens his mouth, and Stiles knows he’s about to ask. Danny will suck out the surrounding air and say _Where’s your mom?_ But he closes his mouth and doesn’t ask. Stiles feels grateful. “If you have roses in the backseat,” Stiles says, “I’m not sure I want to know what you’re growing in the trunk.”

“Nightshade,” Danny says easily. Then he unlocks the car and slides into the driver’s side. “See you at school, Stiles.” Stiles watches the Camaro back out of the parking spot and drive away carefully.

 

Deputy Wallace lets him into the back offices without checking his ID. That’s the most welcome he’s felt so far in Beacon Hills.

 

Skylar is waiting for him at his desk. He’s even grabbed two station mugs and filled them with water. It reminds Stiles of when he was younger and ate at the station almost all the time. He puts the slightly greasy brown bag on the wood. “Just this once,” Stiles warns his dad and takes out the first burger. He takes out one for himself and sits back down in his swivel chair.

 

He’s halfway through his burger and has his mouth full of curly fries when the game warden and a uniformed deputy trudge into the office, covered almost head to toe in mud. Stiles raises an eyebrow as the officers both start peeling out of their clothes in the middle of the floor. The sheriff’s door opens and Parrish laughs from his doorway. “What happened with the hunters?”

 

Derek growls, a trait that reminds Stiles of Lydia. He wonders how well those two actually know each other. The other one answers. “We double checked their permits and politely asked them to leave the area.” Stiles finally gets a good look at the deputy. The deputy has the same ferocious determination in his eyes as Allison, and Stiles thinks he just met her dad.

 

“What were their permits for?” Parrish asks, his eyes following Derek’s shirt as it makes a splat on the tile. “You are mopping that up, by the way.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Permits for wolf hunting valid in Minnesota. I took down their names.”

 

Stiles chokes down the curly fries. “There are no freely roaming wolves in California.”

 

Everyone in the office turns to stare at him, and Stiles curses himself for speaking up. Derek looks him dead in the eye. He says, “Exactly.” Then Derek and Chris Argent walk barefoot to the showers in the backrooms.

 

Parrish gives the mess on the floor one last disappointed look before he holes back up in his office. Stiles turns to his dad. “You ever get this feeling like there’s something you’re missing?”

 

Skylar reaches over and ruffles his son’s hair. “I’ve had that feeling all day.”

 

When everything settles back down, Stiles reaches back in the bag and pulls out the container of sauce. He’s curious. He takes a fry, dips just the end into the sauce, and bites it off. The effect is instantaneous. His eyes start to water, and he chokes down the reflex gag. Skylar watches him with concerned amusement. “Holy shit,” Stiles whispers and realizes speaking is the wrong thing to do. He sprints to the bathroom and shoves his mouth under the sink faucet.

 

Snickering comes from behind him, and Stiles looks into the mirror to see both Chris and Derek smirking at him, towels around their waists. Chris says, “Rule number one of Beacon Hills: don’t eat Boy-O’s hot sauce.”

 

When Stiles can finally feel his tongue again, he pulls away from the faucet long enough to say, “That stuff could be weaponized.” With the glance that passes between Chris and Derek, Stiles gets the distinct impression it has been weaponized. He keeps his mouth under the steady flow of water for a few more minutes. By the time he gets back to his dad, the fries are gone. “What did the sheriff want?” Stiles asks as he sits back down in his swivel chair.

 

Skylar swallows a bite of his burger. “He just wanted to sort out our liaison to internal affairs. That’s what I’m here to help him out with.”

 

Stiles stops eating. “What?”

 

Skylar dips the burger into a large pile of ketchup. “Well,” he says, “with Beacon Hills’ current record of arrests and curious incidents, particularly with all the cults around here, they have multiple liaisons. They’re responsible for reporting to both the state police force as well as the FBI. The FBI’s liaison does yearly check ups and performance reviews on everyone in the department. From there, they figure out whether or not the current hires are capable of handling the unique situation of the town.” He takes a bite of the burger and talks through the food. “The state police provides additional training for every officer in this area because of the risks. Each of these officers have gone through about as much training as army recruits, not to mention all the psychological tests they’ve had to pass. Hell, they bring in cult and riot experts almost quarterly. That takes a lot of coordination.”

 

Stiles tosses his spent napkins and the hot sauce back into the brown bag. There’s a grease stain at the bottom. He watches his dad take another large bite and finish off his burger. “So you’re a paper pusher?” he asks.

 

Skylar shrugs and wipes his hands. Stiles says, “Why can’t you do that at home?”

 

“I’m still on call,” Skylar says.

 

“Why did they give this job to you?”

 

Skylar pauses and taps his hands on the desk. “The army experience didn’t hurt, I’ll tell you that. I think I was the only applicant with enough experience for them to realize that I actually thought it through about taking this job.”

 

Stiles hears the bag crunch in his hand. He focuses on that sound and not the wheezing his lungs are threatening. “You knew?” he says. “You knew how dangerous this town was and you still took this job?”

 

Skylar gently pries Stiles fingers off the Boy-O bag. He tosses it in the trash. “Stiles, I survived Operation Desert Storm and the Gulf War. I think I can handle a few nutjobs.” Stiles takes a deep breath to speak, but his dad raises his hand. “I know about the massacres. I also know about the current safety and arrest rate for this town. A year ago you could have compared this place to a warzone, but not any more. They’re rebuilding this place, son, and I want to help them any way that I can.”

 

Stiles rolls the slightly rusting chair towards his dad and hugs him. He probably clings longer than he should have, but he doesn’t care. This is his only parent, his only father. There’s a cough behind them, but Stiles can’t move now. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s crying.

 

“Everything okay?” It’s Chris Argent’s voice.

 

He feels his dad nod. The chest underneath him rumbles and soothes as Skylar responds, “Just a long day.” They hug for a couple moments longer, nobody interrupting them before Stiles manages to stop crying and pull apart. When they settle back down, Skylar looks at Stiles. “How was school, really? Don’t say ‘fine’ because I know that’s crap.”

 

Stiles rattles in a breath. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know anyone there. And there was this kid that just wouldn’t shut up. A couple of my teachers made me stand up and introduce myself. Maybe I could’ve done that at one point, but not today. Both times that kid just started talking, and it’s like he didn’t even care that it bothered me. And I know there’s something wrong with my prescriptions because I can’t think, and I can’t calm down, and I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. But that kid, seriously, he just couldn’t fucking let anything go. He came up to me during lunch and kept asking me all these questions that I didn’t want to answer, and he couldn’t take a fucking hint. And there’s something weird about my teachers, but I haven’t figured it out yet. Did you know Lydia calls Mr. Hale by his first name? That’s not normal, okay? It’s not. But I don’t care enough to even figure out what’s wrong.” He doesn’t realize just how worked up he is until he feels the firm grip of his father’s hand gently squeeze his knee. The rest of the department is watching him catch his breath.

 

“Okay,” his father says and wheels Stiles until they’re sitting side by side. “Okay. You’re not going to school tomorrow. I’ll call Dr. Henderson and see what they can do on their end. You just sit tight, okay, kiddo?” Skylar roots around in his drawer and pulls out his phone and a stress ball. He hands the stress ball to Stiles. “I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves out the side door.

 

Stiles squeezes the stress ball until his knuckles go white. He clenches his jaw just as tight as his grip. All he does is focus on the in and out of breathing and catching his breath, the swift and gentle passing of air. The chair next to him scrapes and Stiles jumps. He looks up from his hands to see Derek sitting uncomfortably in his father’s work chair.

 

“About a year ago, Chris got a disturbance call out past Industrial about a fight,” Derek says, resolutely not looking at Stiles. “It turned out to be at the McCall household between Isaac Lahey and Scott McCall about who would take Allison to prom.” Derek snorts. “Apparently, that was a big deal to the two of them. Big enough a deal that they made a bet. I’m still not sure what the bet even consisted of. I think it was something to do with getting Allison to smile the most. Anyway, Allison got wind of it, and she didn’t really approve of being fought over ‘like a prize.’ Her words. Isaac won, and to make matters worse, the loser had to make the winner a celebratory cupcake. I don’t pretend to know what goes on in those boys’ heads. Somehow, Allison managed to pour almost an entire thing of Boy-O’s hot sauce into the frosting without either of them finding out, which is one hell of a feat. Scott gave the cupcake to Isaac, who freaked out.

 

“When Chris got there, Isaac and Scott were fighting in the front yard while Allison just watched. I think she videotaped it. I know she videotaped it. When he asked her why, she just said, ‘If they want to fight, I’ll give them something to fight over.’ She said, ‘It’s just as petty and not nearly as stupid as fighting over a girl.’”

 

Derek finishes the story, and Stiles’ grip loosens on the stress ball. Derek pauses and fidgets a little with a loose thread coming undone on the armrest. “Point is,” he says. “Allison is a good person to have as a friend. She’ll treat you with the same amount of respect you show her.”

 

They sit in tense silence for a minute. When Skylar still doesn’t show up, Derek starts talking again. “Have any friends in Callusa Valley?”

 

Stiles drops the stress ball, and it skitters across the floor. The ball comes to rest snug in the pile of muddy clothes and water. Neither makes a move to retrieve it. “Yeah. Heather and Caitlyn.”

 

Derek nods. “Talk to either of them recently?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He gets the distinct impression that Derek knows he’s lying.

 

Before there’s another lull, Skylar walks back in through the side door. The security system blinks back to red when the door closes all the way. Derek vacates the chair and goes to the break room around the corner of the bathrooms. Skylar smiles at his son and reaches to ruffle his hair. “Dr. Henderson said that until we can get you in on Wednesday to up your anti-depressants by half and to cut out the Adderall slowly. He said that when he sent on your records, he made a note about changing your Adderall to Ritalin, so we’ll see how that helps.”

 

Stiles nods. Derek comes back from the kitchen with a trash bag and picks up the dirty clothes in it in one try. “Mop’s in the closet, Argent. Use it. Don’t forget to put out the wet floor sign. Last time you didn’t do that, Tara slipped.”

 

Chris snorts from his own corner of the open office, his still bare feet propped on his desk. He’s leaning back in his chair, almost dangerously so. The other two deputies have moved on from hovering around a computer monitor to making airplanes from the carbon paper of parking tickets. “It builds character,” says Chris (“It causes lawsuits,” Derek says back.) as he leans forward to pull his keyboard onto his lap. “Hey Stilinski, as the paper pusher—” Chris glances at Stiles “—do you think it’s unprofessional to call the hunters Asshole 1, 2, and 3?”

 

Before Skylar can respond, the sheriff’s door opens and Parrish stands in the threshold looking sick and pale. “Body found,” the sheriff says, “in the creek out near the preserve. Chris, call the ME’s office and Deaton. Get them both out there as soon as possible. The body itself is off County Road 5, about a quarter mile into the woods on the east side. Derek, it’s up to you if you want to help getting them out there. You know that area better than anyone else here.”

 

Derek sets the trash bag full of muddy clothes down near Argent’s desk. “Is it on my property?” he asks and Parrish shakes his head.

 

“I don’t think so. I think it’s right on the edge of the county preserve, but you might want to go just in case we have to search part of your property. Unless you want us to get a warrant?” Parrish adds, smirking slightly.

 

Derek shakes his head and grabs the truck keys. “I can pick Deaton up on the way. He’s usually still in the office.” He leaves without another word.

 

Stiles watches as a small town sheriff’s station with little crime turns into a machine. The two officers in the corner are already rooting through the armory, pulling out rifles and shotguns. “Got a machete if we need it,” one says and sticks the handle through the open door. Chris walks over and grabs it.

 

Parrish turns to Stiles and Skylar. “Stilinski, if you need to stay here and take care of family matters, that’s understandable, but I would like it if you could help us out at the scene. I don’t know how many murder cases you’ve worked before, but I bet they’re nothing quite like what you’ll see here. Might as well get used to it the sooner the better.”

 

Skylar nods and hugs Stiles. He says, “I want you to go home. Straight home. This is not the time to start getting curious and looking around. I’ll call you if anything happens, okay?” Stiles nods. “Don’t worry about school tomorrow. I’ll call in for you. We’ll try again in a couple of days.” Skylar gives Stiles one last hug before he follows Parrish out the door. He takes the shotgun a deputy hands him, and Stiles watches them go.

 

Stiles is halfway home when he passes the county cemetery. He almost stops until he remembers that everyone he wants to visit is buried hours away and so alone. Stiles keeps driving to an empty house, and he feels just as buried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I used to live in a small town with a burger joint like Boy-O's. Their hot sauce was ridiculous. So one of my roommates required people to try some of it if they wanted to drink any of his beers. I always bought my own alcohol.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week was spent driving all over the state to visit my cousins' graduations and see family. It's nice to finally be able to settle down and write.
> 
> Sorry that this chapter seems to mostly consist of sitting and talking. Action and interesting stuff is going to start happening soon, I promise!

He wakes up the next morning to four missed calls from his dad. There’s a text message from two a.m. that says, _Won’t be home til at least 3. Just called to check. No need to call back_. He looks at the clock on his phone, and it reads 10:32. He finally managed to get some sleep around one in the morning. It was restless and fitful. He remembers dreaming of pale clammy hands dragging him into the water.

 

He wakes up enough to start getting dressed, reaching for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with holes. His pills are in large plastic canisters, and he adjusts his medication according to how he was told, resigning himself to a day of nausea and jitters. He needs food in his stomach.

 

As he climbs down the tight staircase, Stiles notices some of the pictures have made their way onto the wall. Most of them are of Stiles growing up: his first day of kindergarten, smiling and proud that he was wearing shoes with laces instead of Velcro; his first chess tournament, where he lost in the second round; him, somber, clutching his dad’s hand and wearing a small child’s suit. He’s only ever worn a suit twice in his life. He takes the last picture down.

 

The kitchen is starting to look lived in after being used for about a week. There’s trash in the can and dirty dishes in the sink. Empty plastic water bottles are in the recycling. But still, the kitchen feels foreign. The ceiling above the stove is clear of any burns, the rickety table isn’t bogged down in paperwork and case files, there are no cracks in the floor tiles. There are no tiles. He opens the pantry and everything is disorganized. It takes him nearly a minute to find the cereal hidden behind the mounds of flour they’ll probably never use.

 

He eats his cereal from a large Tupperware bowl and spends the next half hour reorganizing the pantry. Around eleven, Stiles hears the cruiser pull up into the driveway. His dad comes in exhausted, tossing the keys. Stiles watches as they miss the coffee table and fall to the ground. “Did you just get back in?” Stiles asks and moves to pick up the keys.

 

His dad shakes his head and collapses on the couch. “Managed to get a couple hours shut eye before my shift this morning.” He rolls over and groans. “One of the relief deputies kicked me out of the office a few minutes ago. Thanks for picking up the keys, by the way. I did notice that I missed the table.” When Stiles goes to speak, his dad is already asleep.

 

Instead of making him move to a bed like he should, Stiles lets him stay for just a little longer. He washes the Tupperware cereal bowl and moves to the refrigerator. There’s a frozen pizza in the freezer and extra mozzarella. He heats up the oven, takes off the plastic, piles the mozzarella on, and tosses the pizza in to cook. When the timer beeps, Skylar is still sleeping deeply.

 

The doorbell rings just as Stiles is pulling the pizza from the oven. “Shit,” he says and burns himself on the dribbling grease. He’s still sucking on the burn when he finally opens the front door.

 

Derek Hale stands on the front porch, shielding himself from the chilly sun. The porch awning doesn’t quite block the sunlight enough to miss the game warden. Stiles exhales and moves aside. After years of his father working with police of all kinds, Stiles knows better than question when one of them shows up unannounced. “Come on in,” he says through the thumb in his mouth. “My dad’s asleep. Don’t wake him.”

 

Derek nods. “You okay?” he asks, casually pointing to the digit still in his mouth. He moves inside the threshold and takes off his baseball cap.

 

“Oh,” Stiles says and wipes the spit on his jeans. “Yeah. I just burned myself a bit. Not the first time it’s happened. Definitely won’t be the last.” He walks into the kitchen, and Derek follows. The pizza is still cooling on the stovetop as Stiles roots around the half-unpacked kitchen for their pizza cutter or even a knife. Derek sits at the table and absentmindedly kicks at the busted leg. The table screeches in protest as Stiles scrambles to right the leg before the table topples over. Derek gets there first, reacting quicker than Stiles though possible. “Holy shit,” Stiles says. “Are you alright?”

 

Derek nods and laughs a little. To Stiles, it sounds borderline hysteric. “Fine. You look like you’re about to freak out.”

 

Stiles looks through the doorway between the kitchen and the living room to find his dad still very much asleep. He lets out a small sigh of relief. “I totally forgot about the leg, sorry. We don’t have enough people over to really remind us to say anything about it.”

 

Derek shrugs. “I can fix it, if you want. It’s just a loose screw. All I’d need—”

 

“No,” Stiles says, emphatic. Derek flinches somewhat and twitches an eyebrow. Stiles grits his teeth. That table can’t get fixed. The burns above the stove are already erased. He doesn’t want to erase the table leg, too. Skylar always said he would fix it, but they both knew that the leg would remain broken until the rest of the table was destroyed as well. It was part of his childhood, part of their tradition, dancing around the table leg, treating it more delicately than anything else.

 

“How’d it break?” Derek asks. Stiles goes back to rummaging through the drawers until he triumphantly presents the pizza cutter.

 

Stiles pauses. “My mom thought she saw a mouse once so she jumped up on the table. When we couldn’t find the mouse, she refused to get off the table. I was seven, and I thought I could move the whole thing into the living room because she really wanted to watch TV but couldn’t see it from on top of the table. I wasn’t strong enough to move the table, but I kept pulling on the leg until it broke.”

 

Derek fiddles with the loose screw. He snorts. “What was your mom doing that whole time?”

 

Stiles smiles and passes him a plate full of pizza. “Laughing,” he says and sits down in the other chair.

 

Derek eats quietly as they both wait for Skylar to wake. “I’ll give him ten more minutes,” Stiles says, finishing off the last of the frozen pizza. He gets up from the table and tosses both plates into the sink. He rummages through the fridge for a pack of carrots. Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles shrugs. He closes the refrigerator door a little rougher than he intended. A magnet pops off the fridge and clatters to the floor. The photograph underneath flutters after it.

 

It’s a picture of Caitlyn, Heather, and him gathered around a small table at an ice cream shop. Heather is purposefully being obscene with her ice cream while Caitlyn open-mouth laughs. Stiles looks content. He remembers that he asked one of the old ladies in the middle of a bridge game to take a picture of them. All four of the women nearly took his head off for interrupting their cards, but one of them eventually agreed to take it. Instead of being offended at Heather’s motions, she sighed and said, “Darling, if you want to be able to fit anything larger than a twig in your mouth, you’d better start practicing more.”

 

He puts the photo back on the fridge so it faces the wrong way.

 

Derek watches him from his seat at the table. Stiles bites down hard on a carrot. When he gets back to the table, he offers the bag to Derek, who shakes his head. His loss. Carrots are even healthy. They help you see better in the dark. Or so his mother always told him.

 

“You okay?” Derek asks.

 

“Fine.” Stiles doesn’t sound fine, but Derek lets it drop. The bag crinkles as he rummages his hand through it to grab a handful of carrots. He takes another cursory glance around the kitchen. The cabinets are lacquered wood, very much unlike the painted white ones at the house in Callusa Valley. The floors are wide-set wood, dark knots that look like cigarette burns. Then there’s the clean white popcorn ceiling.

 

“Is there a bug up there?” Derek asks, and Stiles jumps. He turns accusingly to the game warden, but Derek continues. “You keep looking at the ceiling.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says. “No. At our old house, there was a burn on the ceiling above the stove. My mom was making chicken, and the grease splattered over the side and caught fire. It burned up the ceiling really good until we got it under control again. I keep expecting the ceiling to be brown, not white.”

 

Derek takes a carrot from the bag still in Stiles’ loose grip. He crunches it between his teeth and looks up at the ceiling. “Where is your mom?”

 

Stiles doesn’t even pause to take a breath before he raises his voice. “Yo, Dad. Don’t sleep on the couch. It’ll kill your back.” He refuses to make eye contact with the game warden, and instead intently watches the couch in the living room. A hand curls around the back cushion. His dad grunts as he forces himself into a sitting position. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Someone from the office is here to talk to you. Probably about some dead body out in the preserve that kept you up way too late last night and is now interfering with your sleep again.”

 

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Skylar says, and Stiles considers those to be good first words from his dad. “Take a deep breath. Do I smell pizza?”

 

Stiles bites down on another carrot. “Yep. I made one while you were out, but I ate it all so there’s none left. Fortunately for you, though, I do have a bag of carrots out in front of me if you’d like some.”

 

“Pass,” his dad says. He shuffles slowly into the kitchen and looks at their guest. “Derek, nice to see you.” He turns to Stiles. “Okay, kid. Time for you to go.”

 

“What?” Stiles says, spraying carrot shavings down his chin.

 

“You eavesdrop. That’s what you do. You’ve always done it, ever since you were little. So go on. I think there’s a mall or a movie theater or anything else in town for you to do. Hell, I’ll even give you a few bucks. Just, out.”

 

Stiles snorts. “That was—okay, I will concede that’s happened more than once.”

 

His dad glares. “More times than I can count.”

 

“Then you can’t count very high, Dad. Wow, I definitely didn’t get my math skills from you.”

 

“Get out,” his dad says and points at the front door. Stiles laughs and gets up to go. “And take the damn carrots with you.”

\---

His dad wakes him up at seven and tells him to get dressed. Two hours later, he’s sitting in a large chair with a stuffed frog staring at him from a bookshelf. The man sitting in the other chair is a living replica of that frog with a head wider than it was tall, a wide large nose, small bead eyes, a long thin mouth, and even a wart on his right cheek. His wiry brown hair stuck out in a way that reminded Stiles of a scarecrow. Stiles is one ribbit away from walking out, although he does have to admit the chair is comfortable. They’re the kind of lounge chair he’d expect in a replicated Victorian house, not a psychiatrist’s office. He sinks into it and looks around at the rest of the small office. The walls are shelves. Books line the top shelves and graze the ceiling. The shelves at eye level are covered in frog paraphernalia, not just the stuffed one trying to pry into his soul. Stiles shifts in his seat and forces his eyes away from walls. He doesn’t want to focus on the man sitting next to him, tapping his fingers on the armrest, so he mentally traces the wood pattern of the desk in the far right corner.

 

“I’m Mike,” the man says. Stiles ignores him. “I know you’ve been working very closely with Carl—”

 

“Dr. Henderson,” Stiles says. “Show him respect, Dr. Young.”

 

He nods his frog head and bites the end of his pen. Stiles thinks the pen looks like a fly. “First, Dr. Henderson sent along some notes about your medication. He says that he wants to take you off the Adderall. Are you having some issues with it? I want to just get this out of the way, so we can talk and get to know each other a little bit more, okay?”

 

Stiles slowly presses his fingers into his thigh, using the pressure to ground him. “I don’t like taking it because it can mess with my schedule, but I can’t stop taking it because I hate how I feel without it. When I don’t take it for often enough, I feel like there’s no point in even trying to concentrate. I think, ‘Hey, you know what’d be fun? Driving my car straight through that intersection.’ And I just barely have enough self-control to not do it. It’s like my brain’s fucking with my body and trying to take over, but it can’t. So I take the Adderall.”

 

Dr. Young sets his pen down and straightens up a little. “I have to ask this, I’m sorry—” he doesn’t sound very sorry—“but have you ever had these kinds of thoughts under any other circumstances?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Nope. Not much more than thinking, ‘What’s the fucking point?’ when something shit happens, but other than that seems to be just the Adderall.”

 

Dr. Young narrows his already thin mouth, lengthening it so much Stiles is worried that his chin might disconnect from the rest of his face. “And what do you think is ‘something shit’?” he asks, shaking his head a little at the word choice.

 

Both frogs have their full attention on him. Stiles wishes that Dr. Young were Dr. Henderson. He never had to explain himself to Dr. Henderson. “I think something is shit when I spend more time at someone’s grave than at someone’s house.” He is hoping for a reaction, a flinch, a take back, a half-muttered only somewhat sincere apology, but Dr. Young doesn’t move a muscle. Stiles guesses that’s a reaction in itself.

 

Dr. Young says, “We’ll start you on Ritalin. You can go ahead and cut out the Adderall completely. If there are some issues and side effects, call me immediately. I’ll give you my emergency number just in case.” He reaches over to his desk and grabs his prescription pad and a business card. With the pen in his hand, he writes out a quick script and hands it to Stiles. Then he flips the card onto the blank side and scribbles out a phone number. “That’s my emergency contact. You can use it whenever you need to. Now how about we play questions? Have you done that before?”

 

Stiles nods. “Once with Dr. Henderson. I ask a question, then you ask a question. With Dr. Henderson, it usually devolved into a petty argument, though.”

 

Dr. Young laughs. “That’s alright. Petty arguments are fun. You start.”

 

Stiles considers and looks around the room. _Do you like frogs so much because you look like one, or do you look like one because you like them so much?_ He shakes his head and refuses to look at the stuffed frogs and the ceramic frogs and the frog stickers and even a frog lamp. “I think I’ve got one. Where did you go to school, undergrad and graduate?”

 

“UCLA for both. I met Dr. Henderson there in their doctorate program. He had this weird obsession with cheese. I don’t know if he’s grown out of it.”

 

“He hasn’t,” Stiles says. “Your turn.”

 

Dr. Young pretends to consider for a moment, but Stiles knows better. He’s seen enough therapists to know that Dr. Young has a complete ordered list of every question he wants to ask and maybe even how long he thinks it should take Stiles to answer them. “What was one of those petty arguments about?”

 

“The proper plural of hippopotamus,” Stiles answers. “Did you ever play any sports?”

 

“Tennis. I started when I was six and played through high school.” Dr. Young taps the pen end against the lounge chair. “Do you play any sports?”

 

Stiles snorts. “Are you going to parrot all my questions back to me?”

 

“It’s not your turn.”

 

“No,” Stiles says bluntly. “What was your dissertation about?”

 

Dr. Young pauses like he’s considering prodding Stiles to provide more information before he answers the next question. Stiles stays adamantly silent and raises his eyebrows. “It was over the psychological and neurological effects of prolonged exposure to marijuana within the 5-10 age range. Apparently, schizophrenia happens. Although I’m pretty sure half the information I collected probably wouldn’t be allowable by the IRB today. My turn. How was your day yesterday?”

 

Stiles stiffens. What seems like an innocuous question puts him on edge. He knows there’s a trap. They’ve gone from the fun, innocent questions to what he knows Dr. Young really wants to talk about. But he doesn’t know Dr. Young. He could lie, say everything was fine and move on. He has his prescription for Ritalin. What’s he still doing here? Stiles takes a deep breath. “Not so good. Someone asked me where my mom was. I didn’t answer.” He pauses. “I spent twenty minutes in a bookstore bathroom trying not to have a panic attack.”

 

He sees Dr. Young try not to sit up in his chair in interest, but he’s already leaning an inch forward when he catches himself. There’s this thing about therapy, Stiles thinks, that puts you on one end of a wide chasm. One side is where you want help, where you realize that maybe talking to someone, a professional, can help you. The other side is where you look down at the deep abyss and refuse to say you’re afraid but you still won’t jump. Both side have two options; you can walk away or you can fall into the black below. He feels himself slipping, so he talks. He wants to walk away. He wants to turn around and find the world reconstructed just a little. If he stays silent and by some miracle walks away, the world he walks into will be ashes and flames.

 

“Did they know that it upset you?” Dr. Young asks.

 

Stiles shrugs and picks at his t-shirt. “Pretty sure he knows he messed up somewhere. I kind of changed the subject and left really quickly after that.”

 

“What were you two doing when he asked?” Dr. Young isn’t taking notes, just fiddling with the pen, twirling it between his fingers, tapping out a rhythm on the cushion. Stiles wonders if they have that in common, the fidgeting, or if Dr. Young is doing it because of Stiles’ inability to fully concentrate. He watches the pen make a swift, sure movement through the doctor’s forefinger and middle finger.

 

“I was telling him about the time my mom caught the stove on fire on accident. He caught me staring at the ceiling because it didn’t look right,” Stiles says and shifts in the chair. Then he notices what’s missing in the room. A clock. There’s no clock on the wall. No novelty frog telling him what time it is. He has no idea how much time he has in this tiny little office before he’s sent back out into the world where his dad will pick him up in the cruiser and greet him with the same optimistic smile when he thinks his son does something he should be proud of. There’s nothing prideful about being lost.

 

“Do you like talking about your mother?”

 

 _We’re talking about her right now_ , Stiles thinks but he doesn’t say that. He bites his thumb, where the burn from the day before is still healing. “I don’t know. When I was little, my dad and I didn’t talk about her much because it hurt. I lost my mom, and he lost his wife, and both of us had seen her die slowly for years and when she was gone, we couldn’t bring ourselves to say anything. After that, I didn’t tell anyone because it seemed like the only thing they would see in the stories was her illness or that they would pick out the pieces that would point to her being crazy even before she got sick. I wanted to keep those stories, too. They’re what I have left of her. I didn’t want to share them with anyone else. Jesus, it’s been ten years. And she was sick throughout the only times that I can even remember her. I don’t have stories from before she was sick, so I don’t like talking about her because I want to remember my mom and not the dementia.”

 

Dr. Young sets the pen on the desk and reaches slowly for Stiles hands. Unconsciously, he’s been counting his fingers by digging his nails hard into each digit. He puts his hands under his thighs. Dr. Young doesn’t reach for the pen again. “Tell me a story about your mom. Even if it’s as basic or normal as ‘We went to the petting zoo once and a goat licked my mom’s hand. She laughed for five minutes.’ It’s okay to talk about her and remember her, but it’s also okay to know that her sickness will always be there. It’ll always be part of her and part of your perception of her, and that’s okay. So tell me a story.”

 

Stiles almost says no. He almost refuses and walks out, but that feels too much like falling. He tries to think of the right story to tell Dr. Young, going back and forth between telling a fun story and telling him the kind of story that showed just how sick she got, to tell Dr. Young that it’s not okay and it won’t ever be okay. “My mom had this little garden,” he says, unsure how to start the story. “She always smelled like thyme, really crisp. When I went out there sometimes, she’d pluck a little sprig of the thyme she’d planted and roll it around in her hands. Then she’d let me smell her hands. She’d give me a sprig of it, too, so I could roll some around in my hands. I almost always ended up crushing it because I was so little, but she’d just pinch off another tiny little sprig and hand it to me. She’d tell me to hold onto it because maybe it could tell the future. She’d say, ‘Only thyme will tell.’ I didn’t even get that it was a joke until years later. I really, honestly thought that thyme, that that herb held the world’s secrets hidden inside it.” Stiles sniffs. “That’s the only memory I have of her before she got sick.”

 

Dr. Young doesn’t grab for the Kleenexes, and Stiles is grateful. He wipes his nose on the long sleeve of his flannel shirt. “What about after she got sick?” Dr. Young asks. “Can you tell me another story about her?”

 

Again, Stiles almost refuses. He croaks on the word “No,” so he swallows down the pressure in his throat and thinks of another story to tell the stranger sitting next to him. “I think I was six, so this was before everything got too bad. I came home from school on the bus, and she was home early. This was back when she was still trying to work. She was sitting at the table, and she just started talking as soon as she saw me. I remember that I hadn’t even gotten my jacket off all the way before she started telling me about this game she used to play with her brother and the other Polish kids in the neighborhood. It was called Wolf and Geese. One person was the mother goose, one person was the wolf, and the rest of the kids were goslings. There was a start, an end, and a set playing field. The wolf would go hide somewhere in the playing field, and the mother goose would try to get all the goslings to the end point without running into the wolf. The geese couldn’t run until they saw the wolf, and the wolf couldn’t move until the geese were just a few feet away. No matter what, the goslings had to follow the mother goose. If they broke formation, the wolf would win. Just one gosling had to make it to the end for the wolf to lose. If a gosling got tagged, they were ‘eaten.’

 

“My mom told me that she was always the wolf because the one time she was the mother goose, she led all the goslings straight to where her brother was hiding and watched as he ate every last one.” Stiles breathes evenly and holds back the tears. He can’t look at Dr. Young. Won’t. That’s when it clicked for Stiles that his mother was sick, that maybe she was just a little unstable, a little crazy. His mother led those children around. They were supposed to trust her, and she was supposed to take care of them. Instead, she led them right to their demise. For a six year old, that story killed him. Now it kills him for a completely different reason.

 

“What was your favorite game to play as a little kid?” Dr. Young asks. He’s leaning forward so Stiles leans back.

 

“I don’t know. Hide and seek, I guess. I didn’t play too many games when I was a kid.”

 

Dr. Young smiles, and Stiles worries that he’ll want Stiles to elaborate more. But he doesn’t pry. “I used to play wall ball with my younger sister inside the house. It would drive my parents nuts. Once, I threw the ball so hard and hit my sister, and I accidentally gave her a black eye.”

 

“I gave someone a broken nose once, but that wasn’t an accident,” Stiles says. He wonders what the rest of Dr. Henderson’s notes say. Do they say what happened to Stiles, why he was seeing Dr. Henderson in the first place? How much of those notes did Dr. Young actually read?

 

A timer dings from the computer speakers. Stiles can’t see the monitor from where he’s sitting, but he thinks that wraps up the session. He starts moving, but Dr. Young says, “That’s just a ten minute reminder. We’ve still got some time, and I want to talk to you about something while we’ve got a chance.” Stiles sits back down.

 

“I want you to start a journal. You don’t have to write an entry a day, or even write consistently. Just write when you think of something. You could have five entries from the same day and nothing for the next couple of days. I want you to try to do at least one entry a week. Be honest in it. I’m not going to read anything you don’t want me to. Next time we meet, I’d like you to bring in an entry for us to start the hour off with. That sound like something you can do? It shouldn’t take you more than twenty minutes a week, if you wanted,” Dr. Young says as he stands and walks towards his standard office chair. He turns to face the computer screen.

 

“Now,” he continues. “I know you’re used to meeting with Dr. Henderson on a very regular basis, so how about we schedule our next meeting for next week? How does next Thursday at 4 sound? That way you don’t miss any more school than you have to.”

 

Stiles nods. Dr. Young takes another business card and writes the time and date on it. Then he hands it to Stiles. “I have you in the system for next Thursday. If you need anything between now and then, don’t hesitate to call. If it’s after five, call the emergency number. Ninety-five percent of the time, I’ll answer. If, for some reason, I don’t, I will get back to you as soon as I can. And next time, let me know how the Ritalin’s working out for you. It’ll be a little while before we can really tweak the dosage, but I think this will help. Keep taking the same dosage of the Prozac that Dr. Henderson suggested yesterday, and we’ll see what that does.” Dr. Young shows Stiles to the door and leads him down the hallway to the building exit. “See you later, Stiles. It was nice to meet you.”

 

Stiles waves and walks down the cement walkway towards the idling cruiser. He flinches and hopes nobody sees him. There were enough rumors in Callusa Valley about him; he doesn’t need any started here. When he reaches the car, a ladybug lands on his shirt. Carefully, he flicks it away and opens the passenger door.

 

“So how was it?” his dad says as soon as Stiles is buckled in.

 

“He’s not Dr. Henderson.”

 

He can see a small frown form on his father’s face. “Do you need me to call him up and recommend another one? I don’t know how many practices there are in Beacon Hills, but there are quite a few other towns in the area.”

 

“No,” Stiles says quickly. “I don’t know him as well as Dr. Henderson. Give it a bit of time, then we’ll see.”

 

“Okay.”

 

They stop at the pharmacy to fill the prescription. He remembers yesterday, how good it felt to bicker with his dad like he used to do all the time. Skylar walks around the store while Stiles waits at the counter. He comes back a minute later with a pack of razors. “Should I shave?” he asks, tilting his face side to side for Stiles to get a better look at him. “Or should I grow my beard out and be all hip? ‘Cause that’s what the young kids are doing these days.”

 

The pharmacist calls them over before Stile can answer. He has a large full beard, and both Stilinskis crack up. It feels nice, like laughing really could help someone heal. For the first time in months before they moved, Stiles feels normal. He breathes and savors the air in his lungs. When he exhales, he mentally counts out eight seconds. It feels like everything could be okay. He takes the Ritalin and hopes for the best.

 

Skylar drops him off at home. “You don’t have to go to school today, but tomorrow you do. I know you’ll have some make up work from these past two days. I’ll see what I can do about picking that up for you later.”

 

Stiles nods. On his way up the stairs, he grabs another box labeled ‘Stiles.’ He opens it when he gets to his room. In the box are his stuffed animals, and at the bottom is one poorly stitched up wolf cub. Claudia could never get the hang of sewing, but that didn’t stop her. Whenever she sewed up holes in his shirts, she would end up making the mess worse, but he wore those shirts with the most pride. “Sometimes they look for effort,” she’d said. “Sometimes they want perfection. Well, they’re not getting perfection from little old me. They’re getting effort, and they better damn well like it.”

 

He turns on his laptop, intending to start on the journal, but after staring at a blank Word document for nearly ten minutes, he gives up. He sets the laptop on his bedside table. The Ritalin is still in the prescription bag and rolls towards him as he shifts on the bed. He tosses the bottle on top of the computer and tries to fall asleep.

 

He dreams. Stiles dreams of standing in a foreign living room, of thousands of ladybugs covering his body, climbing into his mouth, his eyes, his ears as he stands completely frozen. Their wings and legs shuffle together, synchronize and intensify into a tiny buzzing, high-pitched scream. They tickle his skin as they move, like flames licking. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. The bugs pour down his throat as the house burns down around him, his mother’s voice crackling, _Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone._

_All except one._

 

Stiles wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to play Wolf and Geese with my sister and cousins when I was younger. It's really fun, and I hope my future kids play it.
> 
> Also, yay cliffhangers!
> 
> I lost my job a couple weeks ago, but I think I've found a new one. I don't think that'll interfere with posting or anything since my last job sucked my life away. This one's actually manageable hours with almost no mental work. So that'll be a nice change from every job I've had before.
> 
> ETA: AHAHAHAHAHA. I totally lied. My new job is sucking all of my hours so I'm not actually able to get any writing done. I do intend to post the next chapter in about a week, though.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to update! Hooray!
> 
> I'm submitting my two weeks' notice into work next week because I hate my new job, and I quit my old job because I didn't get to spend any time with my family. The new job is just as bad, and I'm done sacrificing my family for work.
> 
> What that means is that in about three weeks, I'll be able to write a lot more often. And hopefully be able to update more often.
> 
> Also, I know this chapter is a little bit shorter than the others, and I'm sorry about that. I feel kind of bad that it took forever for me to write and there's not even that much of it. But I am a little bit proud of the fact that I finally figured out the spacing.
> 
> One more thing (I know this is just a jumble of stuff), this chapter is where I talk a lot about how I think Stiles grew up. Some of the stuff in this is very similar to some of the stuff in 'Heritage.' I've said it before, you don't need to read 'Heritage' to know what's going on in this.

Stiles walks into English on his first day back with barely five minutes to spare and almost immediately regrets not showing up sooner. The only chair still open is in front of Lydia, who’s looking at him in concern. He hates looks of concern; they only mean that he’ll get more attention when he wants none. Before he can take his seat, Mr. Hale calls him up to his desk.  
  
“I’ve noticed your absence the past couple of days,” he says, shuffling papers into neat piles on his desk. He turns away from Stiles to write on the board a list of what they’re doing that way. A doublespeak activity the class was working on before he arrived is due. Stiles thinks he’s had enough doublespeak without the book. “Your dad said there were some health concerns involved. Are you feeling better?”  
  
It takes Stiles a moment to realize that was a question because there was no real inflection in the words. Stiles shrugs, not caring that Mr. Hale can’t see him. “Yeah, I think. We’ll see how much better I’m feeling later.”  
  
The back of Mr. Hale’s head bobs up and down. “I did also get an email update from your case worker. Let me know if you need to leave.” He pauses, as if waiting for Stiles to fill in the gaps. Stiles finds a loose thread on his shirt and pulls. Mr. Hale continues. “Your father came by yesterday to pick up your homework. You have until tomorrow to turn it in.”  
  
“I already have it done,” Stile says. After the nightmare, he couldn’t sleep so he spent nearly five hours trying to force himself to sit through the homework. He’d swallowed the prescribed dose of Ritalin and then made coffee, hoping the caffeine would settle him enough. It was hell, and Stiles almost called Dr. Young multiple times to beg him to up the dose. His dad’s presence did help, though, and in the end, he’d finished everything before he went to bed. “Should I put it on your desk?”  
  
“No, put it in the tray.” Mr. Hale points to a stack of plastic trays in the corner between the door and the wall-consuming chalkboard. Behind the trays, Stiles can see the erasure outlines of where a crudely drawn penis used to be. Underneath it, there’s a note in the same neat handwriting as Mr. Hale’s: ‘Greenberg, draw one again and yours will disappear too.’ Stiles puts the papers in the tray and sits down quickly.  
  
The bell rings just as he takes his seat, and he’s grateful that there’s no time for anyone around him to talk to him. Danny gives him the slightest of nods, which Stiles returns. He doesn’t want to face Allison again after what happened two days ago. While she doesn’t look upset at him, he wonders how much her father told her about how he was at the police station. He wonders if she even cared to ask. Probably not.  
  
Lydia Martin is sitting behind him, tapping her pencil. The urge to shiver gets the best of him, and he feels a chill run down his spine. There is little doubt in his mind that she’s the one who found the body in the creek. The woods were still flooded from the rain; nobody would go hiking in those conditions. He chalks up the suspicion to current facts and refuses to believe in intuition.  
  
Then Mr. Hale turns around. And Stiles stifles a scream. He grips the edge of his desk, knuckles going white. The world tilts for just a second and he breathes through his nose, the hint of ashes coating the inside of his mouth. He can feel a finger tap him on the shoulder, but he’s paralyzed. Frozen to the seat. His fingers glue themselves to the desk. Bile rises up, and he just barely manages to swallow it down. Mr. Hale’s face cracks and crumbles and burns right in front of Stiles. Dirt snakes down Hale’s chin and into his shirt.  
  
Stiles blinks and the world rights itself. But the burns haunt him.  
  
Lydia Martin hisses behind him, “You okay?”  
  
He can’t answer still. It’s the Ritalin, he thinks. It has to be the Ritalin. That’s the only thing that’s changed. Are hallucinations even a side effect of Ritalin? He almost reaches for his phone to check.  
  
“Stiles?” Lydia’s voice hits him right in his ear, and he jumps. It’s not her voice, just a rasping echo. It sounds like she’s trying to speak through a mouthful of cobwebs. “Stiles.”  
  
“What?” he manages to hash out between heartbeats. Mr. Hale is watching him from the front while he gives out directions for the day. He refuses to turn around and talk to Lydia, especially when Mr. Hale looks at him with that blank slate slightly overshadowed with vague curiosity.  
  
“I’m handing out your assignments for the essay over _1984_.” He pauses like he’s waiting for everyone to complain. Nobody does. “These essays will be due in three weeks. As this class is a college equivalent course, I expect—”  
  
Stiles tunes Mr. Hale out. He’s a good writer and a good researcher. If he could write a paper over circumcision, a paper over gaslighting and control won’t be that difficult.  
  
He never does quite tune back in to the class, and an hour goes by in a haze. When the bell rings, he bolts out the classroom before anyone can call him back. It takes just a minute before Stiles looks around. He has no idea how to get to biology. A softness from the side and a nudge on his arm startles him. Allison smiles.  
  
“I can take you to biology if you want,” she says. “I want to see Scott, anyway.” Stiles nods, figuring she’d tag along no matter his opinion. They maneuver their way through the crowded hallway, pushing their way past a couple of students standing in the middle of the hall talking. He can see the somewhat familiar posters and door decorations when Allison asks, “Are you okay? You seem a bit wound up.”  
  
Stiles could say that he’s fine, that there’s nothing wrong, that any number of excusable reasons. But they’re only excuses. Before he can stop the words, they tumble out in a jumbled mess of regret. “I just moved two hours away from where I grew up to this place. I haven’t even been here for a week and there’s some dead body that I’m almost entirely positive Lydia Martin found. This school has about fourteen hundred people wandering around, when I went to a school of just barely a hundred. I have no friends here, and I’m pretty sure there’s something incredibly wrong with Mr. Hale.”  
  
Allison gently guides him to the side of the hall, close enough to his biology class that he can see Scott’s concerned face through the doorway. He looks away before Scott can make eye contact. Allison’s warm hand is still on his forearm. There are calluses on her fingers, and he’s surprised that she would ever let her hands be anything but soft. “I know it’s hard,” Allison says. “I lucked out my first day here. Scott practically fell in love with me the moment he saw me, and he’s the sweetest guy in this school. Just stick through it, okay? Maybe your friends from Callusa Valley could visit some weekend. It’s only a couple of hours, right?”  
  
He knows Allison’s trying. That’s the only reason he’s not curled over a trashcan vomiting. Her grip on his arm tightens for just a second when he takes a deep breath. “Or maybe you can go visit them some weekend?” she adds.  
  
Stiles blinks and nods. “Yeah. I’ll visit them.” He can’t speak anymore, so he turns and walks into the classroom. Silently, he takes a seat at the back of the classroom and stares straight forward. Mrs. Martin accepts the work from when he was gone, and she asks no questions. Erica and Scott keep looking back at him. He plucks at a hangnail and hisses in pain while everyone around him takes notes. Greenberg keeps kicking the leg of his chair. When the bell rings, his notebook is blank and his thumb is bleeding.  
  
There’s a rock-climbing wall in the gym when he gets there. When he’d walked into the locker room, Finstock had thrown a shirt and a pair of gym pants at him, yelling at him to wear that or go to the gym naked. Stiles had never really paid attention in locker rooms, and he turned out to be one of the first dressed.  
  
Half of the senior class has the same class for gym so Erica and Lydia are both in his class. He spies the blond-haired boy from the first day, but he still doesn’t know his name. While Finstock shouts what sounds like a combination of probably confidential US battle tactics and safety instructions, Stiles hangs back. Few of the students are paying attention, and a couple of the students are already pointing out their routes to the top. Everyone perks up when Finstock starts shouting out pairs of names. The first pair starts putting on the safety harnesses. Finstock tosses out the secondary harnesses for the second pair to start putting on.  
  
“Is it safe for Erica do this?” someone near Stiles whispers. “Last time that happened, didn’t she have a seizure?”  
  
The kid’s elbowed in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. “Dude, don’t let Erica hear that. She’ll bite your dick off, man.”  
  
“Please.” Stiles jumps as Erica rolls her eyes and glides over to them. “As if I would put my mouth anywhere near that thing. I’d cut it off,” she says, a feral grin electrifying. Even her hair buzzes with static energy. “With scissors.”  
  
Stiles blinks, and he swears she’s glowing. She starts climbing alongside Lydia. He watches as they climb the wall with ease until Erica’s foot slips on one of the grips. Her shoelace tick-tocks from the momentum and Stiles can see her seize up. He can see her lose her grip. He can see her fall.  
  
Then she puts her foot back on the grip and leaves Lydia in the dust.  
  
One of the good things about no one knowing his name is that Finstock would never be able to call on him to rock climb. He makes it through PE without even having to do anything. Stiles is perfectly fine with that.  
  
It’s lunch. His dad said he’d eat healthy for the rest of the week if Stiles sat in the lunchroom, so Stiles grabs his tray and sits in a corner spot next to one of the many plants in the school. They have thirty minutes to eat and talk. Nobody sits near Stiles so he eats in silence.  
  
“—the records. There’s no one by his last name from the high school.” Stiles can hear Danny’s voice at the next table. He scrunches behind the plants and concentrates solely on his chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes. A spare pea tumbles into the potatoes.  
  
“I found him in the district list, though.”  
  
“So what? Was he home schooled or something?” Allison’s voice joins Danny. Stiles can see where they’re sitting. The four from the library are at the table: Scott, Erica, the blond, and the black guy. Danny, Allison, and Lydia. Paranoia is a rare side effect of Ritalin, Stiles thinks. He almost pulls out his phone to text his dad when they talk again.  
  
“No. He was in the alternative school. He’s been there since second grade. I found some stuff on his mom, too,” Danny says. “No wonder Derek said he didn’t want to talk about where his mom was.”  
  
“Are those police reports?” the blond asks. Stiles can see a small fight going on over a tablet. Danny immediately removes his hands from the situation. Erica wins. There’s a lull in conversation while she reads through whatever’s pulled up on the screen.  
  
“Holy shit, this chick’s crazy.”  
  
Danny snatches the tablet back. “Erica, that’s his mom.”  
  
“What happened to her?” Scott asks, his arm around Allison.  
  
“She died ten years ago.” There’s a collective intake of breath, and Stiles grits his teeth. They looked him up, found out about his mom. And now they’re talking about it like it’s nothing. They don’t know. Danny doesn’t know. Danny probably found the death certificate, thought he knows why his mother died, but he doesn’t. Stiles saw her stop breathing, saw her forget how to breathe. He saw his mother suffocate to death and they’re wasting air talking about her like she was nobody.  
  
Then the muscular person next to Erica speaks in a smooth voice. “Does anyone else think this is a conversation we shouldn’t be having?”  
  
There’s a pause. Stiles looks at his tray, and all he can see is the butter separating from the instant potatoes. He swallows, pushing the cardboard away. He nearly throws up when Isaac speaks again. “Seriously, though. Those police reports can’t be that bad, can they?”  
  
“Isaac, stop,” Scott’s voice cuts into the conversation. “I don’t know why Peter said to look into him, but we’ve done it. Now I’m done taking suggestions from him, and I’m done talking about this. Danny, delete whatever reports you have. I don’t want anyone else to know. It’s not even our business to know.” Next to Scott, Allison starts tapping her fingers together. Scott turns to her. “What’s up?”  
  
Allison sighs and runs her hands through her hair. When Scott tries to fix the tangles she put in it, she swats his hands away. “I think, sometimes, he’s half-convinced he’s just as crazy as her. Does anyone else notice how he sits in class and just counts his fingers?” Everyone else shrugs. (“I don’t actually have class with him,” the larger guy says.) “Well, he does. I figured someone else would notice, but I guess it’s just because I’m trained to look for people’s tiks and idiosyncrasies. I mean, it’s not normal. Your mom’s death isn’t something you get over, but it is something you get used to. Ten years is a long time to get used to the fact that your mom’s dead.” She sighs. “Maybe Peter was right. Maybe there is something about him that we’re missing.”  
  
Stiles takes his tray, looking at the food on it with unease. He throws everything in the trashcan and tries to walk as calmly as possible to the bathroom. He dry heaves twice. Barely manages to keep everything down. For the second time in a week, he holes himself up in the bathroom, the cool tiles beneath him and the white painted cement blocks behind him. There’s writing all along the stall walls. Stiles reads the one scratched at eye level: _I hate this fucking place_. There’s a crude drawing of a frowning face next to it and Stiles thinks, _Me too_. Hidden slightly behind the toilet at an awkward angle that makes it feel much more intentional that boredom is a small etched paw print.  
  
The bell rings. Stiles stands up, washes his hands, and wipes himself down. By the time he gets to class, he’s late. The government teacher glares at him until he sits down. Stiles doesn’t even bother to figure out what they’re talking about. It doesn’t matter.  
  
The high school bumps up against some parts of the woods. Beacon Hills is located far enough north that trees surround the area. The town is practically hidden by forest. Stiles stares out the large double pane windows, his heartbeat matching the rhythm of the swaying trees. A raven caws from the branch of the closest tree and takes flight. He watches it spread its wide wings. He can feel Lydia’s presence from her corner, but he doesn’t look over. A feather detaches when the bird flies right past the window. His eyes follow it all the way down.  
  
Stiles tracks the clouds moving in and before the bell rings to release them, a spattering of rain hits the window. By the time he turns to see the classroom emptying, it’s pouring. Two more hours. He starts counting out the minutes and then seconds left before he can leave. Mental math calms him. Two more hours of rain and distraction and hypervigilance.  
  
The lockers are organized alphabetically with a smattering of additional empty lockers thrown in at random for transfer students. Stiles’ locker is stuffed in with the ‘M’s. That’s how he finds out that Lydia, Scott, and Danny all have last names that start with M. He makes as much noise as possible when he grabs his books to avoid a repeat of lunch. When the rest of that group shows up, he sighs and feint lunges to mash his head against the locker.  
  
He hears Danny talk first. Isaac, the blond whose name he learned from lunch, leans up against the wall, his hands in his pockets. Danny turns to Isaac and asks, “You think he’ll let us use the loft this year?”  
  
Isaac shrugs. “Well, he wasn’t exactly the happiest about it last year, but I think that’s because we didn’t actually ask.”  
  
Scott slams his locker shut, an economics textbook hanging in one hand. “If we don’t ask, then wouldn’t it be plausible deniability in case we get caught?”  
  
Stiles’ grip against locker door tightens, the meat of his fingers digging into the metal edge. In his eyesight is the photograph from the fridge, Caitlyn and Heather and him, grinning like idiots. It migrated to school with him when his dad put it in his hand. “To give you something good to look at,” his dad had said. The top of his face is partially covered by the magnet.  
  
Allison’s lavender perfume snatches him back and her sharp laugh hit him full force. He feels the bile tickling the back of his throat. She says, “If we got caught, the worst that would happen is my dad would yell at us. Parrish wouldn’t arrest us, unless he was trying to look good. Scott’s dad isn’t supposed to be in town any time soon. Even if he were in Beacon Hills, Parrish would just let us go as soon as he could. I don’t even know why Derek still has the loft, to be honest. He doesn’t use it.”  
  
“Yeah, but does he care if we trash it?” Lydia asks. She digs through Allison’s purse, Allison not bothering to mess with her. She dances a little when she pulls out a small flip makeup mirror. Stiles holds his breath, waiting for a heel to break off her shoes. Lydia inspects her face and touches up her makeup; then she tosses the mirror right back into the bag.  
  
Danny joins Isaac in leaning against the wall. “We’ll clean it up,” Danny says. Isaac snorts and Danny nudges him. Isaac doesn’t budge an inch.  
  
Scott says, “I know Danny said something about his ID, but who’s making the special mix?” He looks around at the group, and Stiles breathes slowly in through his mouth. Practicing breathing techniques he learned when he was eight, counting slowly in his head to distract himself. He makes it to four when Erica unabashedly raises her hand. “So,” Scott continues. “Halloween rave 2.0 is a go.”  
  
“Don’t,” Stiles whispers, almost unaware that anything slipped through his lips. The hand not gripping the metal edge reaches unconsciously for the photo. He can sense everyone around him freeze in the shift of the air. They shouldn’t have heard him. His thumb and forefinger close around the corner of the picture. “Don’t,” he says louder.  
  
The sudden pinching, clawing hand at his back is entirely unwelcome and Stiles locks up. Fingernails dig into his skin, and he tries to school his face. Greenberg leans forward to growl right in his ear, “Just because Daddy’s a cop that ain’t dead yet and you’re too scared, doesn’t mean we can’t have fun. Don’t ruin it for the rest of us.”  
  
“Greenberg!” Finstock’s voice echoes down the long hallway. Stiles can’t hear anyone storm toward them, but the hand at his back is gone immediately. The hot harsh breath in his ears lingers for just a second longer. He tries not to gag.  
  
When Stiles finally turns away from his locker, he jumps at the number of students milling around the lockers. He catches Lydia passing out pieces of paper that look suspiciously like invitations. The teenagers grab them and sprint away to class. “Halloween is ours, Stilinski. That’s our night. You better watch your back,” Greenberg calls and slinks away.  
  
Danny watches Stiles as the crowd disperses slowly. If Stiles grips his locker any harder, he’ll bleed. He doesn’t move his hand. As most of the students gobble up the rest of the invitations and disappear, Danny says, “Why don’t you fight back?”  
  
Stiles snorts, both hands rubbing at his hair. His entire body goes slack from so much stress. He pops. Lets go. He nearly collapses, but he manages to keep his legs underneath him. It’s like he’s trying to reboot, restart his systems that he momentarily loses control. Part of his brain rebels, screaming to run, but it’s vastly overshadowed by the uncomfortable combination of anxiety and apathy. “The last time I fought back, I got kicked out of school. I figured you would have found that when you looked me up.”  
  
Danny gapes and looks like he’s about to spill excuses, but Stiles doesn’t care about his excuses. He slams his locker closed and steadily walks away. He makes it eight steps, then he can feel his arms start to shake, a thrum running through his veins, rattling him up. He can feel the hushed whispers behind him scurry up his spine. The photograph is bent at the corner. His only remaining photograph of all three of them together. His last smile saved in some tangible, visible means. Proof that it existed once upon a time. If only life were a fairytale. In reality, there’s only monsters and hell.

 

School lets out at three. Stiles spends the last forty-five minute class willing the clock to move faster, one barely audible tick at a time. Even so, when three o’clock finally rolls around, he sits back and waits. The geography teacher tilts her head but doesn’t bother him. He picks at another loose thread on his flannel shirt. The rain streaks down the classroom windows. There’s a small crack in the seal on one of the windows, water trickling in at an oozing pace.  
  
Nearly ten minutes later, he makes his way to his locker, falling back to a trudge when he sees Scott, Allison, and the rest gathered around each other. He’s halfway turned around when he counts the lockers.  
  
“Hey,” he shouts, startling nearly everybody. They quickly shuffle away, and there’s a small skirmish between Lydia and Erica, with Erica tossing her hands up in surrender. “Breaking into school records isn’t enough, so you have to go through my stuff on school property too?” He storms over to the group. At least they have the decency not to scatter. Their faces are screwed up, halfway to an apology, but he talks louder. “Looking up my dead mom, yeah? Find anything good?” He’s angry and he can’t stop himself. “What about the time she threw firecrackers at the neighbor’s dog because it wouldn’t shut the fuck up? What about the time she screamed ‘Happy fucking New Year’ from our roof?” Stiles lets out a scream of frustration. “Did it say anything in those reports about how I watched my dad arrest my mom? Did it say anything about the fucking dementia? What about the death certificate? That’s my locker, you assholes.”  
  
He finally gets a good look inside the small area, and the pit falls from his stomach. His whole body moves in slow motion, air stuck in his lungs, as he faces them. His voice doesn’t shake. “Where is it?”  
  
Danny reaches out to place a hand on his forearm. Placate him. When they touch, a shock buzzes through his nerves, and Stiles jerks away in pain. Danny’s eyes widen from sympathy to surprise and confusion. Everything jolts into quick clarity for the briefest of seconds. Everyone sharpens, Scott, Isaac, Erica, the other one. They glow. Lydia flickers. Stiles’ back slams against the bottom ledge of the locker, and he doesn’t even try to hold back a cry. “Where is it?” he pleads manically.  
  
Sheepishly, Lydia hands back the photograph. “We didn’t mean any harm by it. Danny said he saw it before you walked away, and I had this feeling that—” Lydia clears her throat. “We were just curious.”  
  
Stiles snatches the photo from her, gently smoothing down the sides. Isaac peers over Allison’s shoulder. “You look happy in that.”  
  
The laugh that comes from Stile’s mouth is loud and harsh, nothing humorous in it. “Whatever,” he says and puts the photograph away. The magnet completely covers his face this time. Then he slams the metal door shut. “If you ever touch my stuff again, I don’t care if I get kicked out of school. I will beat the ever living shit out of each of you.”  
  
Allison pushes, though. “Are they your friends?” Stiles stares at her in disgust. “Do you get to talk to them often?” He doesn’t answer, can’t answer, won’t answer. “Maybe you could hang out with them again if they make you smile like that.”  
  
Just like that, he’s calm. Nothing can touch him now. He looks Allison straight in the eye. “Maybe I will,” he says and his feet move on their own accord. Everyone parts for him, and he walks away. The exit to the parking lot is down the hall and to the left. He just has to make it to his jeep. He can do this.  
  
Lydia’s voice echoes down to him as though her words are meant for him alone to hear. “I know what I felt. Those two in the photo, Scott. I know I’m not wrong. I’m never wrong.”  
  
Scott says, “Oh shit. We messed up.”  
  
Stiles can hear the uneven staccato pattern of someone trying to run in heels. Soft manicured hands cling to his arm as he tries to keep moving. Lydia’s strawberry blonde—no, red—hair drapes over his shoulder when she tries to pull him back. “Please,” she says. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean anything by it. We shouldn’t have gone through your stuff, and we shouldn’t have touched that photo. Stiles. Please.”  
  
He stops walking, and Lydia sighs in relief. It doesn’t last long. His eyes are steel and sharp edges. “Save your wailing for someone who cares,” he says with no inflection. “Just leave me the fuck alone.” He jerks his arm from her loosened grasp and doesn’t look back.  
  
People watch from the corridors. Even some teachers are standing uncertain. It’s the first week at his new school. His first week, and already people will call him crazy.  
  
In the parking lot, it’s still raining. When he wipes his face, he doesn’t know what’s rain and what’s tears. He sees the Camaro parked in a spot a few feet from his jeep. He risks a peek in the window. The dirt still covers the backseat, but the roses are gone. He doesn’t feel bad when he stomps on one of the front headlights.  
  
He gets in his jeep, bypassing everything in town and merging onto the highway. He drives too fast, but he doesn’t care.  
  
He doesn’t stop driving for over two hours. By that time, he’s where he wants to be. Only then does he scream himself hoarse, pull at his hair. He opens the door to the jeep and vomits into the road. The sun is starting to set, and it’s getting cold, but he sits in his car and punches the steering wheel. He doesn’t call his dad. Doesn’t do anything but shout until he’s silent.  
  
He falls asleep just outside the cemetery gates.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quit my job in less than a week, so although I would like to say that I'll have time to write more, I'll more than likely be spending that time packing and moving. But I will definitely try to write. I really like writing this, and I like the plan I have for it. So I guess I'll have to learn to juggle.
> 
> 7/22: Updated with Parrish's actual first name.

It’s dark when Stiles wakes up. The gate to the cemetery is closed, but he’s been here often enough that he knows where to sneak in. There’s a break in the fence a few yards down from the road, barely large enough for him and the flashlight he keeps in his car to slip through but not without a scratch or two. The owners across the street know he sneaks in. They tried to stop him once when he was nine. Stiles spent nearly the whole evening in their kitchen crying before his dad picked him up. They’ve known him since he was eight. His family friends operate a cemetery.  
  
His phone buzzes in his pocket. The digital clock reads 11:52. He has three missed call from his father. The most recent message says, “Sending Hale your way. Please come home.” His grip tightens, and he locks his arm to stop himself from throwing the phone. Blood from the knick on his upper arm where he cut it through his t-shirt starts sliding down his skin. He has until two in the morning before the game warden shows up.  
  
Two hours. He flicks on the flashlight, tapping the battery end against his palm. The light flickers for just a moment before coming to a steady life. He could find the tombstone in complete darkness, but he’s not here to see her. He bypasses his usual turn and moves down a couple more rows.  
  
They’re buried next to each other. Stiles remembers the arguments between Heather’s parents and Caitlyn’s parents when that happened. Heather’s mom kept claiming that her daughter shouldn’t be buried that close to a slut. Stiles still instinctively flinches at the memory of the lamp that she threw at him in anger.  
  
He understands, though. Grief destroys any form of sanity, ruins normal societal interactions with the drop of a pin. Grief turns good people mad. The lamp was not the worst that she could have done. The lamp was not the worst that she did do. Caitlyn’s parents still have a restraining order against part of Heather’s family.  
  
He finds the headstone and leans against Caitlyn’s. He tries to works his mouth around words and form them into sound. There’s a disconnect in his brain with the overwhelming urge to speak. Nothing he says will bring them back or forgive anyone in Beacon Hills. Halfway here, he’d almost pulled over and thrown up on the side of the road. Changed his mind twice. Being here brings him nothing. He still has no friends.  
  
He manages to find a word. “Don’t,” he whispers, hoping the snap of the wind will steal his words away. “Don’t leave me alone. Don’t tell me I can do this without you. Don’t be idiots. Don’t steal from your mom’s basement, Heather. Don’t go. Don’t wave me off like you’re fine when you can’t even walk straight. Please don’t leave me. I need you.  
  
“Don’t judge me,” he croaks. “Neither of you ever did. I miss you two, both of you. They looked me up. They looked up my mom. I almost lost it. I haven’t gotten into a fight with anyone since second grade. That’s hasn’t even crossed my mind. Then they just—they came along like it was no big deal. Like there was a reason to it that they could justify it. They looked me up based on someone else’s judgment. I just want both of you back with me. I want you guys to come with me when I sneak into the cemetery. I don’t want to visit you two. I don’t want you to even be here. I want you alive. I want my mom to be alive. I want my mom sane. I want friends again. I want to stop thinking I’m hallucinating. I want to not have depression, not have ADHD. I want my dad to have a good job, a safe one. I want to got to bed and not worry about waking up an orphan.  
  
“I just want it to stop.” Stiles cries, wiping snot and tears onto the back of his hand. Crickets chirp in the wet grass, like they’re trying to shake off the rain. He shivers at the damp. His jeans are soaking through from sitting down. It stopped raining at some point when he was asleep, but Stiles feel drenched to the bone, a weight and a weariness that aches.  
  
His breath floats when he exhales, crystallized in stale cold air. A representation of the soul hanging outside his body and scattering. He starts to shake, and the flashlight flickers out slowly, dimmer and dimmer until it blinks out in defeat.  
  
He wakes up to a blanket covering his shoulders. It’s warm and heavy. And dry. The hands that place it there squeeze his upper arms gently. Grounding. Unconsciously, he pulls the blanket closer and curls up into the warmth.  
  
A lantern glows steadily from the top of Heather’s grave. Stiles can barely make out the game warden’s face until Derek moves. Stiles blinks when he sees his eyes. His eyes are ever expanding solar systems. Improbable. Likely impossible. He can see green, blue, vibrant, yellow, even a tinge of red that flashes out in a bang.  
  
Stiles blinks again. “I think the Ritalin’s making me hallucinate,” he chatters out through shaking teeth. He’s so cold he thinks his front teeth are going to shatter. He’ll choke on the pieces. He rubs his arms feebly, unable to move much. The blanket’s too hot, and he tries to shove it off, but those large hands keep it firmly in place.  
  
The game warden smiles softly and moves away to lean against the headstone across from Stiles. “We need to get you to the hospital,” he says, settling down for a wait. “Why is your Ritalin making you hallucinate?”  
  
Stiles can’t even shrug; he’s too cold. “I keep seeing things that shouldn’t exist. Things that don’t exist. It’s a side effect. Isn’t it?”  
  
Warden Hale isn’t even wearing a jacket. He stretches out, legs almost touching Stiles’ curled up form. Derek looks at Stiles and cocks his head. “What if it’s not the Ritalin?”  
  
Stiles lets out a shaky laugh, hiccupping. Straining not to slur his words together, but thinking is tough. “If it’s not the Ritalin, then I’m going crazy.” He stops trying to warm up his arms. “And that’s much scarier.”  
  
“What if you’re not going crazy?”  
  
“If I’m not going crazy, then the world is,” Stiles says, dropping his head down. Too much effort to keep it up. The blanket rides up over his head, and he doesn’t bother trying to move it.  
  
Warden Hale opens his mouth, leaves it open a moment too long. He closes his mouth and smirks. “You might be onto something there,” he says. “Now you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I know your dad’s worried. After you didn’t come home, he told me to look for you here.” He pauses, looking a bit sheepish. “I might have broken the lock on the gate.”  
  
Stiles sniffs and curls up even further. He tries to breathe, but it hurts. “Why didn’t he come himself?”  
  
Derek sighs, picking at his fingernails. “There’s been another body.”  
  
“Of course,” he says. “I’m sick of dead people.”  
  
He knows what poorly aborted sympathy looks like, and it’s pouring out of Derek right now. It disgusts Stiles.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Derek says, looking visibly pained. “For bringing up your mom. I don’t like it when people bring up my family, and I should have known better.” He pauses and nods. “And now it’s really time for you to go to the hospital. You’re not getting any better. You’re actually getting worse.” He stands up, wiping the seat of his pants. Without hesitating, he leans over and scoops up Stiles in his arms. Stiles doesn’t have enough energy to physically protest, but he squawks. Derek holds him tighter. “Your lips are blue, and you haven’t stopped shaking yet. You’re going to the hospital, and I don’t trust you to walk.”  
  
As they move back towards the now-busted gate, Stiles tries to wave, mumbling, “Bye bye, Mama.” He knows he doesn’t hallucinate the small squeeze he gets.  
  
Stiles is dumped into the passenger seat of a law enforcement painted SUV. The back of the SUV is offset by a cage protector. Derek cranks the heat up full. Being close to someone else has already warmed Stiles up some. Touch. He wants to bring his knees up and fall asleep. Find the warm spot in the sun and relax. He can’t even put his seatbelt on. Derek helps him. He feels grateful to be carried; there’s no way he could have walked.  
  
He sleeps through it, his body so exhausted that he can’t stop his systems from shutting down. He wakes up slowly in the hospital, in a gown, with a blanket wrapped around him. There’s a humidifier next to him, cranking out warm wet air. It smells like death, disinfectant, and the underlying tone of urine and desperation. It’s so heavy in his nose that he turns over the side of the bed and retches. “Get me out,” he cries, but it comes out barely more than a hoarse whisper.  
  
Strong hands pin him to the bed when he tries to flail. “Stiles.” Derek’s eyes break into his line of vision. “You need to calm down, Stiles.”  
  
He deflates, a slow whine of pain coming from him. It hurts. He needs out, but it hurts to move. He scrambles under the blanket and sucks in the air, trying to filter out the stench. Stiles turns away from Derek. He sighs, hating himself. It’s embarrassing. Embarrassing to rely so heavily on other people, embarrassing to be self-destructive. Embarrassing to wish he’d never left that cemetery.  
  
“Hey,” Stiles says, unable to let something go. “Was your uncle ever in a fire?” He pauses. “I kind of want to ask if he was ever buried alive, but I don’t actually want to know the answer to that.” He doesn’t see Derek’s reaction, but the prolonged silence says enough.  
  
“I can guarantee that Peter was never buried alive.”  
  
Every fiber in Stiles’ system knows that he’s missing something. Derek isn’t lying, but he’s twisting the truth. He gets the same feeling he got with Allison. He knows that this is a puzzle and people are purposefully hiding pieces.  
  
He can hear the rustle of clothing and the shuffle of shoes heading toward the door. Before Derek leaves the room, Stiles turns to face the warden. He flexes his fingers, hissing in pain. “Was he dead when you buried him?”

 

The next time he wakes up, Stiles is hot. He starts pushing the blanket off, bending his fingers to grip at the fabric. The vomit next to the bed is gone, so Derek must have gotten someone to clean it up. A nurse enters his room in another few minutes while he comes to his senses. She’s there to check on his hands and feet. He flinches back as she digs his foot out from under the covers. When she bends a couple of his toes, they hurt.  
  
She tells him it’s near dawn, and he flops back into bed and curls up again. He’s just about under when he hears the door swing back open with a rush of sterile stale air following.  
  
“Hey,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls over to face him. The lights in the room are dim, but still bright enough for everything to be visible. Derek sits down in the chair next to the bed. “I called your dad a little while ago and told him we were going to head back later.”  
  
Stiles exhales slowly. “Did you tell him—”  
  
“—about being admitted to the hospital?” Derek shakes his head. “I did tell Jordan. Parrish,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll tell your dad in the calmest way possible.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter how Parrish tells my dad,” Stiles says. “He’s still gonna freak. Can I have my phone?”  
  
Derek smiles and tells him no. He leans forward in the stiff-backed chair, the seat creaking with age. “Hospital policy, not mine. You’ll get it back when they release you.”  
  
“And when will that be?”  
  
Stiles hates hospitals. He knows the theory of them. People get sick, get hurt, need help. They go to the hospital to get better. Everyone he knows who’s gone to the hospital has died. He knows that it’s not causation or even a correlation, but rationality was never his strong suit when it came to people he loved. He knows he’s not in danger of dying right now, but his skin is crawling and he still feels sick.  
  
Derek shrugs. “Hopefully in an hour.”  
  
Stiles nods and sits up, shifting his knees up. “My hands hurt.”  
  
Derek huffs a laugh and reaches out. “Give me your hands. I’ll see if I can warm them up.” Stiles reluctantly moves out from under the blanket, placing his slender hands in Derek’s large hands.  
  
Stiles snorts. “You have large paws,” he says. When Derek freezes, Stiles puts his head in his knees. “Sorry. I think I’m a bit sleep-deprived. I haven’t had my meds yet today, either.” He sighs. Derek’s hands are almost too hot to touch, but it feels good. It feels better than the blanket.  
  
It’s past seven and the sun is rising when the doctor finally signs the release forms. It still hurts a little to walk, but Stiles moves, limping towards the exit. He’s dressed in some of Derek’s old clothes since his are too dirty, too damp, and too light to wear. Derek follows a step behind him, arms extended as though he’s waiting for Stiles to fall.  
  
“Where’s my car?” Stiles says when they get outside. It’s still cold and he shivers, trying to shield himself from the wind. The clothes he’s wearing are heavier than what he wore the night before, but the wind still pierces through his skin. Derek steps forward and to the side, in immediate way of the breeze.  
  
“I had someone else come pick it up earlier this morning,” Derek says, leading Stiles towards the SUV. “I figured you might still be in a bit of pain so I called a couple people to pick your car up and drive it back to Beacon Hills. Do you need help getting into the car?” he asks and opens the passenger door.  
  
Stiles flinches, swallowing, and reaches for Derek’s hand. The warden helps him up with more strength and dexterity than Stiles thought possible. He buckles himself this time, belatedly acknowledging how warm the seat and car itself is. “Did you warm this up?” Stiles asks, shifting in his seat to get comfortable.  
  
Derek’s doing up his own buckle, and he smiles. “It didn’t seem like a good idea to have a cold car when you’d been in the hospital for hypothermia.”  
  
Stiles closes his eyes and feels the twitch of his lips. “Thanks,” he says. “Kinda shitty that you had to come take care of me when you have a job to do. How’d you end up with Stiles watch anyway?”  
  
There’s silence long enough and the engine rumbles to life. Stiles pries open one eye to catch a glimpse at Derek. When there’s still no response, Stiles resigns himself to the fact that he won’t get an answer.  
  
Derek speaks when they turn onto the main road. “I volunteered. I felt bad about what happened when I asked about your mom. Chris was about to send Allison and Scott after you as punishment for breaking into your locker, but I thought if you saw them, you’d try to kick their asses. If you tried to take on Allison, you’d be in the hospital for a completely different reason.”  
  
Groggily, Stiles murmurs, “You think I couldn’t take her?”  
  
Derek snorts. “I know you can’t. She’s beaten me in a fight.” He shivers and grips the steering wheel tighter.  
  
“I’ve only been in a fight once,” Stiles says.  
  
“And?”  
  
“I broke his nose. I was also in second grade. I don’t really think anyone won that fight.” Stiles turns his head to look out the window as they speed up on the highway ramp. The ground is craggy and uneven. He can see the trees off in the distance. Somewhere in there is Beacon Hills, one of the most dangerous places in the country, he’s coming to realize.  
  
They pass a couple green mile markers when Stiles asks, “Who picked up my car?”  
  
Derek jerks like he thought Stiles was asleep. “Allison and Scott. It was Chris’ idea to pay you back.” As though he can sense Stiles' spike in heart rate, he adds, “Don’t worry, we just told them to pick it up. We didn’t say why they needed to. I just told them your dad asked me to bring you back myself. They don’t know.”  
  
Stiles deflates. “Thanks.”  
  
He makes it to the next highway exit before he falls asleep.

\---

Stiles wakes up outside his house. This new house. Barely two stories high, the second story just big enough for a landing, a bathroom, and his bedroom. There’s a tree near his window, and a ledge from the living room’s roof underneath the sill. It’s small. It’s quaint.  
  
It’s not home.  
  
Home is where his mother taught him how to garden, how to mix herbs to make seasonings. Home is where his father showed him how to play baseball in the backyard, a picket on the fence still broken from his first successful hit. Home is large and spacious with flowers growing. Home is where his mother hid herself in the bathroom for six hours. Home is where he tried to throw himself down the stairs to stop his parents from fighting. Home is where he knew his dad’s whiskey hiding spots. Home is the good and the bad. Home is everything.  
  
This isn’t home. This is a roof over his head.  
  
“Can you take me to the station?” he asks.  
  
Derek doesn’t even respond. He just jerks the shift into reverse and backs out the driveway.  
  
Stiles half-thought Derek would say no, there’s a dead body. But he doesn’t. They drive down the road when Stiles sits straight up.  
  
“Where’s my jeep?” he asks.  
  
“At the station. If it’s not there, then it’s at my place or Chris’,” Derek says. “Scott has a tendency to try to apologize when he messes up, which obviously isn’t a bad thing. But he does like to go a bit overboard seeking people out to apologize to them. We figured it was for the best if he didn’t know where you lived.”  
  
Stiles thinks back to the first conversation he had with Derek. “So he tends to hound people until you accept his apology?”  
  
Derek smiles, a hint of too much humor. “That’s one word for it.”  
  
“How well do you actually know them?” he asks. “You know them better than through Allison and Officer Argent. You don’t just give someone your dead sister’s car so they can dump dirt in the backseat. Or know that they hound people when they feel bad. That’s not just common knowledge kind of stuff.”  
  
Stiles expects a lie. He expects silence. He expects a lack of reaction. He gets a brief taste of bitterness in his mouth, like he’s biting into one of the herbs his mom’s garden. He feels his control slipping for a moment. He gets this distinct impression that Derek is hiding a secret that he’s putting together.  
  
“When my sister died, Scott was there to help me out. He helped me talk to Parrish about getting a job as game warden. He and Lydia helped me rebuild my house and figure out how to actually live without Laura. When Isaac’s dad died, I took him in for a bit until he could file for emancipation. So I may have lied about how well I know them, but that’s because it’s not exactly the easiest to talk about.”  
  
“You’re lying right now.”  
  
Derek slams on the brakes and they both tip forward into their seatbelts. Stiles hovers against the fabric before falling back into the seat. Derek pulls the SUV over, nearly mounting the curb as he turns to Stiles, staring at him. “What the hell are you?” he asks, inhaling deeply.  
  
Stiles shrugs. “Cop’s kid. I know when someone’s lying to me because I know how to lie.”  
  
Derek doesn’t move, and Stiles sees the incredulity dancing around behind his eyes. Stiles knows that’s not what Derek was asking, knows he intentionally misunderstood because he didn’t know how else to respond. He doesn’t know what the hell he is besides human.  
  
Without another word, Derek blinks, shakes his head, and pulls the car back onto the road. The rest of the ride is in silence. Stiles considers speaking, and his leg bounces against the seat. He hasn’t taken any Ritalin yet. The bottle is still on the counter of the upstairs bathroom.  
  
He sits up with a starched spine, stiff and straight. He never fell down the stairs. His parents rarely argued, rarely yelled. They had harsh whispers and frustrated motions, but it felt less like arguing and more like giving up. Whenever they disagreed, Stiles could sense the frustrated jabs tossed back and forth, a sigh of defeat. He could practically hear the smiles and crying and the desperation to stay together. Those weren’t his parents fighting. That wasn’t his memory.  
  
“Oh shit,” Stiles say. “Oh shit.”  
  
“What?” Derek sounds annoyed.  
  
“Take me back to the hospital. Oh shit.” He breathes unevenly, each ticking up in fear, less and less oxygen making its way into his lungs. “No. No. Oh my God. This can’t. I can’t. High school. I just want to graduate high school.”  
  
“What.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement of worry and concern.  
  
“My mom—” Stiles starts. “She—” He can’t breathe. He’s going to die. He’s going to suffocate to death, now or later. He’s going crazy. He’s losing his mind bit by bit; it’s turning off and dying.  
  
“You’re not sick,” Derek says, resolutely not turning in the direction of the hospital. They’re almost to the station, and the car doesn’t even hesitate in its direction. “You’re something. But you’re not sick, I promise.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t calm down. If anything, his eyes bug out even further. “How?” he rasps, sucking in breath. He can’t breathe out. The air is stuck there, dead weight. “H-how do you know?”  
  
Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’ forearm, much like how Danny tried to. This doesn’t shock him. If anything, it warms him, slowly and with a calm confidence Stiles could never possess. “I know, Stiles. You’re not sick, and you’re not going crazy. Why do you even think that?”  
  
Warmth through touch is something Stiles is beginning to crave. The hand on his forearm calms him and very carefully, he exhales a small huff of air. “I’ll take you to your dad, okay?” Derek says. “You can talk to him about it.”  
  
Stiles nods, words waiting to stumble from his mouth. He refuses to speak for fear of what those words might spell out.  
  
Stiles’ jeep is waiting in the parking lot of the sheriff’s station when they make the turn. Scott’s waiting, too. Stiles shrinks down into the seat, trying to hide himself under the window. Derek deliberately parks away from the jeep, but Scott follows them. When they get out and head to the door, Scott starts to approach. He swears he hears Derek sigh in warning and even growl slightly. Whatever it was, Scott seems to back off.  
  
It’s chaos in the station. He hears his dad on the phone with someone, sees him roll his eyes in frustration and annoyance. Parrish is barking out order to three teams who all go to the armory and grab enough firepower to raise a complete militia. It’s riot gear, rifles, and shotguns. They all pull on Kevlar vests. Chris Argent is shouting in French down his cell phone. Allison Argent looks at the ready from her spot in her father’s chair. She’s whispering vehemently both into her own cell phone and to her father. The floor is slick from tracked-in mud, and Stiles would have fallen if Derek hadn’t caught him.  
  
When his dad sees him Stiles watches him collapse gracelessly into his desk chair. He looks like he’s almost had a heart attack. “I don’t give a shit, McCall,” he can hear his dad say into the receiver. “We’ve got another spree killing. Send an agent.” He slams the phone into the cradle and melts into his chair. “Stiles,” he says, and Allison’s eyes snap to him.  
  
Stiles maneuvers between the rest of the officers still busy with their work. He reaches his dad and squeezes his shoulder. “Sorry to worry you,” Stiles says. He determinably looks away as his father wipes his eyes.  
  
His father grips his bicep and starts to guide him into the chair next to him. He sees Parrish make eye contact with Skylar, and Stiles is hauled up and into the sheriff’s office. The door clicks and locks behind them both. Skylar quickly closes the blinds to the window that looks into the rest of the offices and flicks on the overhead lights. “What’s going on, Stiles?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he says, sliding down the wall to the ground. He taps his fingers against his thighs. The he raises his hand and grips his head like he’s worried it’ll roll away otherwise. “When—”he starts. “How’d you know Mom was sick?”  
  
“What?” Skylar looks like he’s trying to keep standing. Even then, he takes a small step back so he’s leaning against the sheriff’s desk.  
  
“How’d you know?” Stiles breathes through his nose, feels the bile in his throat. “I keep—I keep seeing things that shouldn’t be there. Stuff that doesn’t exist. I don’t think it’s the Ritalin. It shouldn’t be this strong. I haven’t taken enough of it to mess with me like this. And if it’s not the Ritalin, then—” He has to stop talking before he vomits up the sad breakfast the hospital gave him. Just in case, he still reaches for the trashcan. He doesn’t want to look at his dad, so he unfocuses on the wooden desk back.  
  
His dad sighs and crosses his arms. He hears the shuffle of his dad shift from foot to foot. Finally, he says, “It’s stress, Stiles. With your Mom, we knew something was wrong because she was acting differently in the same environment. Jesus, that sounded clinical. I’ve been around enough shrinks that their bullshit way of talking is starting to get to me. A lot has changed in the past few weeks, Stiles. You’re changing medications. You’re stressed. You’re still grieving. We just moved. Christ, kiddo, everything about this is a recipe for instability. Give it some time, okay? When everything’s calmed down a bit, then we’ll start to worry. If you want, give Dr. Young a call and let him know about what’s going on. Tell him that the Ritalin might be giving you hallucinations. See what he says about flushing the stuff. Let it settle down some first before we start getting you MRIs on a monthly basis.”  
  
Skylar grits his teeth, and Stiles looks up at him. “Try to make a friend, okay?” his dad says. “Let’s start with that. As much as I think it’s unhealthy, you can hang out here after school; do your homework, read, video games, whatever. Come here after school and we’ll do dinner together. We’ll figure out the rest of a schedule later, but that’s a start. A schedule helped last time, so let’s try it this time.” He pauses. “Jesus, son. You scared me.”  
  
Stiles reaches out from his spot on the ground. His dad helps haul him up into a hug. “I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers. They grip each other for a moment, breathing and existing together before they step back. “Now,” Stiles says. “I heard something about a serial killer. Are you going to give in and tell me the details, or am I gonna have to sneak through your stuff?”  
  
Stiles’ dad snorts, a wet laugh that fully breaks the moment. “You wish, kiddo. Let’s go.”  
  
When they leave the office, Chris and Derek are holding a quiet conversation, both sneaking unsubtle glances at him. But Stiles doesn’t care. Allison is gone. There’s a single crossbow bolt on the desk. He watches as it rolls off the surface. When he blinks, the bolt vanishes in a flash.  
  
But it’s okay. Stiles has his dad. He has something. Maybe he’ll be okay some day. And that’s not much, but it should be enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point if you figure out whose memory that is. Personally, I don't think it's that hard. But hey.
> 
> Also, a little bit of optimism. Finally.
> 
> ETA: I fully intend to update within the week (7/14). I'm moving states and I'm starting the shuffle of stuff out that way this weekend, and I really want to update before then.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy that you guys like this. I know I write for myself, but it's still really nice to have such positive feedback for it.
> 
> X Ambassadors' 'Love Songs Drug Songs' EP is really good to write to.
> 
> Also, quick note. I hope it's obvious in the context of the chapter, but I'll clarify it: Madison is the name of the alternative school.
> 
> Finally, an explanation of the canon divergence: Disregard season 4. 3B happened with Kira as the nogitsune (because I didn't really know enough about her character or Malia's to include her). 3A happened, except Erica and Boyd didn't die. I don't know why. They just didn't.
> 
> Note: Brief mentions of drug use and an overdose.

Stiles is the middle of a staring contest with a stuffed frog. Dr. Young taps away at his computer and writes on a pad. “So Ritalin is out,” Dr. Young says. “You did flush them, right?” He doesn’t even wait for Stiles to nod. “You were on such a low dose for just a couple days. We can try Vyvanse. That should work better with your anti-depressants at any rate.” He keeps talking, not noticing that Stiles doesn’t care about a single word he says. “I’d like to wait a little bit longer for everything to get out of your system, but we’ll see what we can do about putting you on a low dose and adding to it as we see fit. Hopefully this stuff won’t make you hallucinate.” He levels a look at Stiles over his reading glasses. “Hallucinations count as an emergency, by the way.”  
  
Stiles blinks. The stuffed frog doesn’t. “Yeah,” he says. “Next time I’m in the middle of watching my English teacher’s face get set on fire, my first thought will go to, ‘Hey, I should probably give the psychiatrist I’ve known for a week a call.’ I was closer to calling Dr. Henderson than you. I’ve been on enough medications to know which ones to flush.”  
  
Dr. Young breathes out slowly, and his glasses slip a notch down his nose. “Stiles, you’re not trained. Medications are dangerous. There’s a delicate balance between what can help and what can kill, and that balance is different for everyone. While someone may need to take six Xanax, another person might overdose and have a seizure. What we’re doing is messing with your brain chemistry to replicate what can pass as normal levels of functioning. That’s dangerous, potentially harmful, potentially deadly. There’s a reason Car—Dr. Henderson—recommended a psychiatrist and not a counselor or psychologist. We need to figure out these medications with the least potent side effects and tweak them to help you. I know you’ve been either around or on psychotropics most of your life, but you’re not trained. Now did you flush the Ritalin?”  
  
Stiles glares and nods.  
  
“Why didn’t you call?”  
  
The stuffed frog finally falls from its precarious perch on the shelf. It takes a book and a ceramic knickknack with it, divebombing to the ground. Neither moves to pick up the mess. Stiles snorts a little at the facedown frog, one of its limp limbs sprawled behind it like a broken arm.  
  
“Stiles.” Dr. Young pushes up his glasses and they slide down once again.  
  
“I don’t trust you. It didn’t even cross my mind that I was supposed to call. I’m not used to any of this. At Madison, it was different, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here.”  
  
Dr. Young stands from his office chair and plops himself down into the Victorian lounge chair. “Stiles, the Madison School was different. I know you’re stressed, and we’ve been trying to help you. I’m not angry. I’m not blaming you. I’m just letting you know that for your health, I need to know these sorts of things. If you want to call Dr. Henderson because you feel more comfortable talking to him, that’s fine. Do so. He can send that information on to me, and then we can help you out.”  
  
Dr. Young finally springs out of the chair and walks over to the pile. He picks up the frog and puts it back on the shelf. He double checks the knickknack to make sure it didn’t break. Then he moves it to sit next to a different pile of ceramics. He stuffs the book into the space between the tops of some books and the underside of a shelf. “Do you know why they recommended you to Madison in the first place?” he says after a moment, turning towards Stiles but not yet sitting down.  
  
Stiles shrugs. “I broke Tyler Spacey’s nose.”  
  
Dr. Young shakes his head. “That was what pushed them over the edge. You were seven and you were on a self-destructive downward spiral. You fought, yelled back at teachers, hit the wall so much you bled. You screamed at your social worker. Stiles, they saw a kid that would end up dead before twenty well before you broke some kid’s nose.”  
  
Stiles can’t breathe. He remembers everything about that year. Every time someone stagewhispered behind him, every motion of a finger winding a clock near their ears, cuckoos singsonging down the hall, every note that he had to take home that he ripped up or forged his dad’s signature on. He was in second grade. Of course they knew that that wasn’t his dad’s signature. It hurt to go to school. It hurt to go home.  
  
“Stiles, I just want you to understand that I’m here to help. You’re a good kid. You’re smart. I want you to succeed. Moving, changing schools, stressing are definitely factors that lead to regression. Some regression is normal. I don’t want you caught in another bout of self-destruction.” Dr. Young pauses. “Okay?”  
  
Stiles nods. “Okay.”  
  
Dr. Young smiles and moves back to sit in the high-back chair. “Did you try that journal out?” he asks as he taps a tuneless rhythm onto the armrest.  
  
Stiles lifts up a little in his seat to get at his back pocket. The crumpled sheet of notebook paper is still warm from his body heat. He smoothes it out a little bit and passes it to Dr. Young, deliberately ignoring the raised eyebrow. He wrote three sentences. There’s quiet as Dr. Young reads through it, purposefully slow. Then he hands the paper back to Stiles. “My dad wants me to make a friend. I don’t think I remember how to make friends. I feel like that children’s book _All My Friends are Dead_ ,” Dr. Young repeats from memory what the notebook paper says.  
  
Dr. Young takes a deep breath. “Dr. Henderson sent me some notes about the accident—”  
  
“It wasn’t really an accident, though. Was it?” Stiles spits through a clenched jaw. “An accident implies there’s no one to blame.”  
  
They sit in heavy silence. Stiles doesn’t want to talk about this. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t think about it, but he never talks about it. His stomach rolls and pitches, and he thinks he might be sick. Guilt, more than anything, is effective for weight loss; he could barely keep anything down after the wreck, after the funeral. After. Everything is just after.  
  
Just as Stiles contemplates sprinting out of the rapidly shrinking room, Dr. Young speaks again. “Can you tell me about Heather? You don’t have to say anything about that night. Tell me about her. Kind of what you did with your mom. A story. Something.”  
  
There are so many stories to tell. More stories about her than about his own mother. He chokes on that thought. Heather was always there, the girl who grabbed his hand on his second day at Madison and told him he was her boyfriend. “I grew up with Heather,” Stiles finally says. “She was pretty much my sister.” This hurts. Dr. Young looks at him in encouragement, and part of him doesn’t want to continue, doesn’t want to tell him anything, doesn’t want to get better, doesn’t want to pretend that he doesn’t feel guilty. He doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t know how to cope with this, with any of this. He needed to get away from Callusa Valley, but there was nowhere else to go. “When I was a sophomore, Heather got me really into punk music. Like the Sex Pistols and the Clash. The Ramones. Buzzcocks. She liked music. That was it for her. Her great goal was to play piano at Carnegie hall. She had this thing for attempting to embody whatever genre of music she was listening to. She almost got caught smoking weed during her seventies phase. This time, she was determined to get me to dress punk like her since I was into the bands too. She ripped up a pair of my old jeans, dug around her closet for a ratty old t-shirt. She kept trying to fiddle with me to make me look all punk until she decided that the reason it wasn’t working was because I didn’t have any piercings or tattoos. We were sixteen, and my dad would’ve killed me if I got a tattoo, so she figured she was going to pierce my ears.”  
  
Stiles snorts and licks at the snot that’s gathered above his top lip. “So we went into the bathroom and she left to get stuff. She came back with a lighter, an oven mitt, a handful of paper towels, one of her ball earrings, and her mom’s sewing kit. About ten minutes later, Heather’s mom found us in the bathroom: this teenage boy in torn up jeans and a girl’s fitted v-neck t-shirt with her daughter, an oven mitt on her hand holding a lighter heated sewing needle, about to plunge it into my ear. Her mom was so mad, but Heather couldn’t stop laughing.”  
  
Dr. Young almost looks like he’s trying to fight a smile. Stiles picks at his unpunctured ears. “Heather never did anything half-assed.”  
  
Stiles breathes for a moment, shifts through the tears coming down his face, less like a marker of pain, more like a gentle reminder that it’s okay to remember. Retrospection isn’t a bad thing. The magnetic ability to summon up memories that set him on edge, that make him wonder what else he could have seen in the people he knew. Heather’s obsessions were obvious. She didn’t bother to hide them. He overlooked the recklessness of her, though. Her bad decisions, poorly thought out choices. Right under his nose, but nothing enough to spark a red flag. His mother was always a bit off in his memories of her. Everything she did was clouded with the thought of her sickness. She could grow anything. She was insightful in a way that Stiles knows he’s inherited with the way his dad occasionally sneaks glances and pours drinks. He had missed so much, refused to focus on it long enough to put the puzzle pieces of their personalities together to make a full picture. All these stories are the puzzle pieces he’s still trying to put together to make a picture of the dead.  
  
“What about Caitlyn?” Dr. Young asks.

  
Stiles thinks. “I didn’t know Caitlyn until halfway through sophomore year. She came to Madison after ODing in the bathroom of her old high school. The first time I met her, she’d done a tab of E before she came to school. Never spoke a word to her before until one day suddenly she was petting my hair and telling me how soft my shirt was. She wouldn’t let go. Not during class. She sat there and petted me.  
  
“She had this song that she used to sing for us. It was an alternate version of _We Three Kings_ that she called _We Three Fuck-ups_. It was nice to not have someone sugarcoat it to us. Caitlyn was always this pillar for me. If I wanted advice, I’d go to her. She was blunt and honest. When I told her that I punched a kid because he made fun of my mom, her first reaction was to ask where he lived so she could punch him too.  
  
“There was one time about a year ago when she got arrested for—I don’t know—I’m ninety percent sure it was public nudity. I was down at the station when they brought her in. When she saw me hanging out with a couple of the officers, she smiled at me and said, ‘Hey Stiles!’ like it was no big deal. I spent a few hours talking to her through the holding cell while the deputy contacted her parents and arranged bail.”  
  
Stiles swallows. “I don’t think Heather’s parents knew she and Caitlyn were dating until after—” He can’t talk anymore. He hit his limit and there’s no way he can push beyond this. He tries for a second, just so see but he gapes like a fish and chokes it down.  
  
Dr. Young studies him. “Do you think Caitlyn was a bad influence?”  
  
Stiles closes his eyes and breathes slowly. His dad used to ask him that same question every day for months after he first introduced Skylar to Caitlyn. “No I don’t. The only time I ever saw her high was that time she was on E. She was a good friend. She cared, and she’d always turn to us and say, ‘Don’t follow in my footsteps, children. Seriously, being high isn’t nearly as fun as you think.’”  
  
Dr. Young hmms but says no more.  
  
 _We three fuck-ups, a match made on Earth_ , Stiles thinks and hums the tune.

\---

Ever since a week ago, Stiles has refused to sit anywhere near them. Danny, Allison, and Lydia in their desks along the wall of the English classroom, an empty desk waiting for him. He deliberately sits at the back on the opposite side of the room. They can’t look at him without making the effort of turning around and displaying their distraction. That doesn’t mean they don’t look back at him. All three of them look like they’re ready to jump out of their seats and apologize.  
  
The kid who usually sits in the seat that he’s taken shows up and starts huffing towards him. He has his mouth open ready to protest, but Stiles gets there first. “Cry about it,” he says and leans back. This is what Caitlyn taught him. How to be cool when he feels like he’s melting. How to act tough when he can barely lift himself out of bed.  
  
The kid rolls his eyes and practically throws his book bag at another desk. When he looks at the three along the wall, they seem to shrink down, and they all turn back towards the front.  
  
English consists of a scavenger hunt quiz through the book chapters they were to have read. They can work in groups. Stiles doesn’t look up from his handout, refuses to acknowledge anyone. As far as he’s concerned, the only things that exist are within his immediate line of vision. He finishes the quiz before anyone else, walks up to the front, and turns it in. He’s spent the week getting used to looking at Mr. Hale again, still trying to blink away the burns. But he can do it. He can look his English teacher in the eye without flinching.  
  
Mr. Hale stops Stiles after he turns in his quiz face down onto the small tray on the teacher’s desk. “Mr. Stilinski, if we could speak after school, I’d like to discuss what we’ll do about getting you fully caught up, especially since this is actually your first full week at school.”  
  
Stiles snatches his hand back from where Mr. Hale’s fingers began to predatorily wrap themselves around his wrist. Stiles scratches the back of his head and absently taps the fingers of his other hand against his thigh. “I already told Ms. Martin that I’d make up the lab I missed last Friday.”  
  
Mr. Hale pauses, like he’s listening very intently before he nods. “Yes, well. If you get done before four, I’ll likely be here. Just drop by and we’ll discuss your make-up work.” Stiles turns and starts to walk away before Mr. Hale speaks again. “Oh and Stiles—” Mr. Hale spits the name “—do take care of yourself. I can’t imagine how hard that cold of yours was to shake.”  
  
Mr. Hale knows. He knows about the hospital. He knows there’s something wrong with him. He’s known from the start. Stiles pauses for the briefest moment before he looks back. He whispers, so quietly no human should hear. “What a big nose you have, Mr. Hale. You shouldn’t stick it where it ought not go.” The surprise on the teacher’s face and the silent brief snarl of his lip makes it worth it. Stiles sits back down, puts his head on his desk, and sleeps for the last twenty minutes of class.  
  
He wakes with little more than a slight jump at the bell ringing. His book bag is already packed so he grabs it and practically sprints. He can hear Allison shout after him, but he’s invincible. He’s had a week of avoidance, a week of dodging them, a week to build back that wall that Caitlyn taught him to build. The whispers of people recalling his breakdown roll off him as he walks with purpose, with intent and confidence she taught him to fake. She taught him to strut and to walk tall, head up eyes forward.  
  
Caitlyn was a good influence. She was the one who let him know it’s okay to love himself even when he feels like he’s missing half his body. It’s all a façade. He’d told her that once. She’d rolled her eyes. “Of course it is,” she’d said. “But nobody else needs to know it. Wear the façade. Embrace the feeling of invincibility.” She’d patted his cheek just a little too hard. “Never forget that it’s a façade. Once you try to become what you’re pretending, you end up ODing on Oxycontin in the boy’s gym bathroom.”  
  
So Stiles pretends. He’s pretended for a week. At first, they were afraid to approach him because he looked ready to kill. It’s Friday now, and they’re finally comfortable enough to try to apologize. Let them.  
  
Sure enough, as soon as he walks into Biology, he sees Scott and Erica perk up and turn towards the door. He drops his backpack on one of the lab tables towards the back, adopting the same tactic he employed in English.  
  
Instead of being glued to his seat, however, Scott gets up. Stiles waits until he’s standing right in front him before he looks up. He doesn’t speak, just maintains what he hopes is cool indifference. Scott is uncomfortable, grimacing like he can see that Stiles has built up so much in a week that he won’t be able to get through. That’s the point, though. Stiles smirks, a harsh one.  
  
Scott breathes deep. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened last Thursday. We shouldn’t have done that.”  
  
“Done what?” Stiles asks, voice full of malice and poison.  
  
Scott bites his lower lip and opens his mouth. Stiles waits, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. When Scott sees this, he flinches like it’s his fault Stiles is acting this way. And he’s right. “We shouldn’t have looked you up like that. We shouldn’t have broken into your locker.”  
  
“Why don’t we call it what it was?” Stiles says. “It was bullying.”  
  
Scott’s eyes widen in disbelief, like he’s never had the label attached to him before. It’s an ugly look. Then, in one solid switch, he shifts to pleading. “Please, Stiles. We didn’t mean to hurt you. We messed up, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Because it’s true. We totally fucked up. We invaded your privacy for no real good reason. We shouldn’t have done it. We shouldn’t have brought up your mother, or even looked her up. We shouldn’t have touched that photograph. We shouldn’t have kept bringing up your friends when you obviously didn’t want to talk about it. We antagonized you, and we shouldn’t have.”  
  
Stiles is almost impressed by the time Scott reaches the end of his speech. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Erica still sitting at their table, nodding like she elected him to apologize for the group. They probably did. Have one person apologize for them all. Quicker. Saves face. Stiles leans forward, propping his forearms on the table in front of him. He bares his teeth, a clear sign of challenge. “You shouldn’t have done any of that, no. As far as I’m concerned, all of you are to blame.” He breaks eye contact with Scott to stare down Erica. “And none of you are forgiven.”  
  
Scott sighs and steps back. In a quiet voice, he says, “I don’t know if you got to see your friends or not. I hope you did. You’re not better for it, though, Stiles. You’re just angry.”  
  
Stiles barks out a laugh. “You’re goddamn right I’m angry.” He watches as Scott walks away with his tail tucked between his legs, as Scott sits down and exchanges glances with Erica, as Erica mouths the word ‘shit’ and looks down.  
  
 _We three fuck-ups, a match made on Earth. We’ll hide our emotions for all that it’s worth,_ Stiles thinks and faces forward. Ms. Martin doesn’t know what her daughter did. He figured that out the Monday he came back. She didn’t look at him funny, try to apologize for her daughter. Anything. She doesn’t know. And Stiles is glad.  
  
Erica tries to approach him in gym, but he doesn’t listen to her. They’ve had a week to come up to him and apologize. He’s had a week to go from violated to hurt to angry. Stiles doesn’t let go of the anger. Every time he feels it fade ever so slightly, he remembers them fighting over the tablet, smacking at each other’s hands like it was a good book and not his life. The Vyvanse is working almost too well; his inability to move on from that moment where Erica and Isaac swat at each other for the opportunity to read his mother’s police records. It’s stuck on repeat, a scratched disk. A broken crack in the audio of “Holy shit, this chick’s crazy” echoing in and out.  
  
He eats lunch by himself in the hallway. Being angry and holding up his walls is tiring. He can see how doing this day-in day-out would push him too far. All he has to do is make it to the weekend. He can finish up his lab, talk to Mr. Hale, and then run. He can spend time with his father, away from everyone else. In a place where he won’t have to worry about walls. He can collapse on the couch and not have to pretend that he can get out of bed.  
  
Lydia finds him and sits down next to him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge her. She huffs, clearly not used to being ignored. Whatever. She purses her lips for a moment. “What we did was cruel.”  
  
“Yes it was,” Stiles says and takes a bite of his sandwich.  
  
“All we did was bring up everything that should’ve remained private.”  
  
“Yes you did.”  
  
Lydia bites her tongue, sticking it between her teeth and lips. “What if I told you we were worried?”  
  
“I’d tell you to go to hell,” Stile says through a mouthful of carrot, uncaring how rude it might be to spray food on her.  
  
They don’t speak for a few minutes. Lydia seems to be in deep thought, and Stiles refuses to give her the satisfaction of leaving. He is anger and apathy. She helped push him there. He’d thank her if he didn’t want to punch her. Anger feels so much more productive than grief. Anger is a high that he can ride.  
  
“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Lydia says.  
  
Stiles chews and swallows a bite of his sandwich. “Go to hell.”  
  
It takes Lydia long enough to process that that Stiles thinks she’s not going to speak again. She doesn’t move from where her back is digging in to the lock of the locker behind her. By the look on her face, he thinks she feels she deserves to be as uncomfortable as possible. “I had a feeling they were the first time I glanced at the picture. I was curious and callous. And I’m sorry that we were disrespectful of your privacy.”  
  
It’s the best apology he’s heard, and likely the best apology he’s getting. But it doesn’t break through to him. He can’t process it, can’t loosen his grip on the anger that been bubbling since before they even moved to Beacon Hills. Stiles very carefully wipes his fingers on the napkin he brought from home. Then he says, “You find the bodies, right?”  
  
Lydia jumps and grits her teeth as the padlock jabs her. She finally moves. “Yes.”  
  
“Ever find someone you know when you’re looking all by yourself?”  
  
She’s quiet enough that Stiles knows the answer to that question, even without her panic-whispered, “No.” She looks uncertain and so much smaller. “And every day, I’m scared that I will.”  
  
Stiles stands slowly, knowing Lydia will get no satisfaction from him leaving now. “That’s the curse of a banshee,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue with unprecedented ease. “You can feel that it’s coming, right from under your skin until you’re crawling with it and the only thing you can do is scream.”  
  
He can feel Lydia’s astonished gaze follow him as he throws away his trash and walks to class. He doesn’t know why he called her a banshee, but it felt right. It felt like she embraced the word, became that creature, and something clicked and cemented in his brain. Lydia is a banshee. There’s nothing surprising in it. There’s nothing that makes him afraid, nothing that makes him worry about himself. She is a banshee. And the others that she runs with. They’re something, too.  
  
Somehow he makes it through the rest of school. Part of him wonders if he’s taking anything in or if he’s showing up just for appearances. But he goes to every class, sits in the back, barely speaks, fingers occasionally tapping, foot occasionally bouncing. He talks to Ms. Martin after classes, finishes up a lab that consists of him looking at onion cells and mapping it out, something he’s done many times before. He labels it, thinks about how much it looks like a fortress. He almost puts in a miniscule dot within the walls of the cell, drawing an arrow to it, and writing his name. His Polish name. Trapped inside an onion cell. He turns it in before he can make the dot.  
  
He makes his way down to the English hall, knocks on Mr. Hale’s door and enters. Mr. Hale is sitting on his desk, waiting like he’s known Stiles was coming since he left the Bio room. Stiles blinks and Mr. Hale’s eyes flash blue on his eyelids. Stiles stays near the door, but he purposefully doesn’t move as Mr. Hale stalks towards him, head tilted slightly to the side.  
  
“You know, up until this morning, I had my suspicions but not confirmations. I really did want to talk to you about your schoolwork, but now I’m interested in something so much more important. I’d ask what you are,” Mr. Hale says, circling him and drawing in long deep breaths, “but I don’t think you know the answer to that.”  
  
Siles doesn’t move, frozen to the spot, any trace of anger flushed away and replaced with bone-chilling fear. He can hear Mr. Hale’s movements, the muscles as they work. He can hear the air conditioner clicking like it doesn’t know if it wants to come on or not. He can hear voices in the hallway, growing louder and more frantic. He can feel the weight of the air settled in his lungs. He can’t speak. He can’t scream. He can’t do anything but stand as still as possible as Peter Hale traps him like prey.  
  
“You’re not a banshee,” he says, lightly, almost disappointed. “How does it work? Is it something they say, something they do? Do you just sense it? Can you control it? Is it pieces of their souls on display for only you to manipulate? It’s not just supernatural creatures, though. Is it? But there is something tying you to them, something that provides you with a spark of recognition.” Peter Hale pauses right behind his ear. “It’s the Nemeton. It’s that tree come to haunt us. You probably would have naturally developed whatever magic is in your bones, but the Nemeton just can’t control itself, can it? It pushed you over and now whatever residual energy is bouncing around, and you can see them. Can’t you? You know what they are. Do you know what I am?”  
  
It clicks. Just like Lydia, it clicks. Stiles takes a step forward and turns around to face Mr. Hale. The door slams open behind Mr. Hale. Everyone pours in. The banshee, the hedgewitch, the hunter, the werewolves. All of them standing there at the ready, unsure who’s the bigger threat.  
  
Stiles takes a brave step forward and looks Peter in the eye. Without hesitating or questioning, he knows. He knows what he knew back in the hospital. He didn’t need to ask. He smiles, soft, quiet, deadly. Then he says, “You were dead when he buried you.”  
  
Peter Hale roars, his eyes bleeding blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to explain something with some of the comments I've been getting. I love reading them and responding to them. So I'm going to note something here.
> 
> I HATE when magic is used as an excuse to "explain" an illness. Like Stiles' ADHD is actually an effect of his magical abilities. Or in this case, whatever Claudia is gave her that illness. No. That's not how it works in this story. She got sick in a very much human way. She died in a very much human way. Stiles has ADHD, not some magical thing to control.
> 
> I don't know why it bothers me, but it does. It's kind of the reason why I don't like the movie 'Garden State.' It's like saying, if you live this way or do this, you'll cure your own depression. And that's dangerous.
> 
> I don't know where I was going with this. Just something to keep in mind as you read this.
> 
> I'm moving in a month and packing in a frenzy. We'll see when I can update again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deaton! And Derek! And about 500 more words than usual!
> 
> I've always been under the impression that Deaton doesn't tell people anything simply because they don't ask.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by Half Moon Run's CD "Dark Eyes." And shrugging. So much shrugging.
> 
> This chapter's summary: Here's some emotions mixed in with your information dump. I'm not sorry.

Stiles doesn’t even blink before Peter Hale crumples into a heap before him, Allison holding a taser in front of her. He jumps, any pretense of anger hidden beneath the crushing wave of fear. In one swift motion, she drops a knee between Peter’s exposed shoulder blades and puts all her weight on him, the taser ghosting the back of his neck. The crackle of electricity from the first shock finally hits him, setting his hair on edge. His teeth chatter as it flows down his spine.  
  
Static silence reigns, and Stiles can feel their stares bore into his skin and turn him inside out. Allison’s concentration is completely on him, even as she makes sure Peter Hale stays down. He groans once against the cold tile floor, but she just slams his head against the ground. Stiles flinches. He can’t breathe as he watches Allison rearrange her weight so it settles almost completely on Mr. Hale’s neck.  
  
After time starts moving again, after he can register that everyone is staring at him, waiting for him to move, he takes a shaky breath. He feels rattled to his core, wiped out. After he manages a second complete breath, Scott moves forward, not so carefully stepping over Peter Hale. His hands are up. Stiles seethes; they’re trying to placate him.  
  
“We need to go to Deaton,” Scott says, as though Stiles is supposed to understand. Scott keeps gently moving forward, blocking Stiles in. He can see his escape gap closing rapidly. The rest of them are still bottlenecked at the door, but he suspects that if he runs, they won’t stop him.  
  
So he does. He makes a break for it, dodging Scott’s surprise and slowed reflexes. He pushes through the rest of them, nearly throwing Lydia to the ground as he sprints out of the classroom and down the long hallway. He knows they’ll catch him. It’s only a matter of time, but he just can’t stay there. He can’t stand there and watch as they try to worm their way under his skin, try to poke or prod at him to find out what’s wrong with him. There’s plenty wrong with him, and he doesn’t want them to know anything. It’s none of their business.  
  
He barely makes it the fire doors that lead into the rest of the school when an arm wraps around his waist and he loses his balance. He would have fallen flat on his face had it not been for the strong grip holding him up. The arm doesn’t let go of him as he steadies his feet; it just shifts a little and loosens its hold.  
  
“Are you okay?” Derek asks as he runs a free hand up and down Stiles’ back. It’s comforting, and Stiles relaxes into it in increments. When he finally stops panting from the panic sprint, he looks up. Derek slowly lets go of him and steps back to give him space. The sudden heat loss nearly makes Stiles shiver.  
  
“Of course you’re a werewolf, too,” he says.  
  
Derek shrugs, as if to apologize without actually feeling sorry. They both look back at the commotion coming from the classroom. Danny filters out first, looking like he’s trying to disappear. The hedgewitch has a handful of fine black powder, some of it trickling slowly through his fingers, looking like a broken hourglass. Lydia follows next, rubbing her arm where Stiles shoved her. She looks resigned, still vicious but not deadly. The werewolves follow next, each of them fanning out behind Scott. Allison joins them last, hauling a still unconscious Peter like it takes no effort. Derek doesn’t even raise an eyebrow in surprise at the sight of his uncle. Nor does he sniff when Allison unceremoniously drops him back onto the tile.  
  
All these people standing around, waiting for something. For him. To see how he’ll react. He doesn’t know what to do. His English teacher just threatened him. Not two seconds later, one of his classmates assaulted that same teacher, and he’s standing here wondering if he should laugh or scream or cry. He can feel the panic bubble, and he takes a quick half-step back towards Derek. His muscles tense as if to run again, and he doesn’t even know where he’d go. All he knows is he wants to get away from everything happening in front of him. He can’t think so he says the only thing that comes to mind. “Who the fuck is Deaton?”  
  
Lydia steps forward from where she’d been leaning against the wall. At least she doesn’t try to placate him by walking with her hands out. She looks much smaller now. “He can help,” she says.  
  
“Help who?” he asks, not putting it past them to lie or twist words for their own benefit. Allison’s done it before. She hid the truth from him. They’re hiding things from him right now.  
  
“You,” Lydia says. She moves to face him better, one of her feet crushing a couple of Peter Hale’s fingers, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Stiles, we want to help you.”  
  
A startled laugh bursts from his mouth. He still feels sick. He feels like his world is coming crashing down, and every blink of his eye is a brick in his façade smashed to dust. “Who says I need help? Who says I want help from you?” His fingers tap dance along his thigh as he runs his other hand through his hair.  
  
Boyd shifts on his feet from his position behind Scott, but he doesn’t try to come any closer. Stiles doesn’t remember ever hearing his name. “I know you’re still mad at us, and you have every right to be. We looked you up, broke into your locker, and harassed you. You were new, and we didn’t know anything about you. In the past, anything new through this town has tried to kill us in some way or another. We were worried about what might happen if we didn’t look you up. We just wanted to be prepared.”  
  
Stiles stares wild eyed. “Well, I sure as hell want to kill you now,” he says, gripping his thigh so hard it hurts. It’s true. He wants to scream, to throw something. He wants to hurt them. Scott steps further in front of the rest of them, shielding them should Stiles work up the nerve. Stiles almost snarls.  
  
“Stiles,” Scott says. “We can either go to Deaton or call him here, but we need to talk to him. He can help you. He knows more about all this—” he gestures universally—“than any of us. He can answer questions that you might have.”  
  
Stiles’ facial muscles tik, and he rolls his eyes. “I have plenty of questions. Let’s start with who the fuck is Deaton?”  
  
Very quietly, from his side, Derek says, “He’s the vet.”  
  
Stiles lets the hysteria consume him for just a moment as he lets loose at not-quite-sane giggle. “Are you fucking with me?” he asks through wheezes as he turns to look at the man still standing next to him. Derek slowly shakes his head. “Oh my god. You people are insane.” He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down before he gets hiccups. “Why are you even here?” he asks.  
  
Derek looks at him and makes a face that he doesn’t know how to answer that question without setting him off again. But he does answer. “Scott called me.”  
  
“So you lied to me last week,” Stiles says. “Again.”  
  
Derek narrows his eyes and Stiles can almost see the eye roll he’s trying very hard to hold back. “It was that or say, ‘I’m a werewolf. He’s a werewolf. We’re in a werewolf pack together with every other person who bothered you.’ You were scared enough. I didn’t want to add to it.” He pauses as Stiles processes this. “They looked you up and broke into your locker? They just told me they upset you. I didn’t hear the details.” He shifts his attention away from Stiles to the group of teenagers at the other end of the hall. “I’m not your parent, but I will be telling Melissa and Chris what you did.”  
  
Stiles watches as they flinch in near unison. Derek puts a hand at the small of Stiles’ back. “I’ll take you to Deaton,” he says before giving one last glance at his uncle. He addresses Allison. “If you want help dealing with him, Chris and Jordan aren’t too busy.”  
  
And Stiles stops dead in his tracks. “Oh my god,” Stiles says, his grip on his thigh finally loosening. His fingers are cramped. He starts to collapse into a lump, but Derek’s arm wraps around his waist and keeps him barely vertical. The blood drains from his face and he feels faint. Everything is so far away for a moment before it comes crashing into place, reverberating at the upheaval. “They know. Does the whole department know?” Stiles asks, hysterically. He grips Derek’s shoulder for support. “Does my dad know?”  
  
Derek’s arm tightens around him before he’s sure he can stand again. He lets go of the man’s shoulder. The walls of the school are cold and impersonal. They reek of industrialism and apathy. There’s a warmth at his side, and he focuses on this to ground him. Anchor him. Derek shifts his weight and says, “That’s something you’ll have to ask the sheriff about.” Stiles has no energy left to argue, to fight. No energy left to be angry. He slumps forward and lets Derek support him. “Okay,” Derek says. “You can talk to Jordan later. First, please let me take you to Deaton.”  
  
This jolts just enough energy into Stiles for him to mutter into Derek’s shoulder. “Fine.” They walk away slowly from the teenagers still huddled around Peter Hale. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Peter stirring slightly. Nobody moves to follow them as they head towards the school exit. He lets Derek guide him to the SUV parked haphazardly in the nearly empty lot. He feels safe here. He knows more about Derek from the week he’s spent hanging around the police station. As they stop at the passenger’s side door, he thinks maybe he has found a friend after all.  
  
Derek gently releases his grip on Stiles as though to make sure Stiles can stand confidently on his own. He takes a small step back and clenches his jaw. “You can follow me in your jeep, if you want. Or you can ride with me. Whichever. It’s up to you.” He looks nervous as he offers.  
  
Stiles opens the door and climbs into Derek’s car.

\---

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “You totally weren’t joking.” They’re sitting in the parking lot in front of the vet’s office. It took nearly the whole car ride before Stiles calmed down. But he’s with his friend now, and that makes him feel better. Before Stiles can say anything else, Derek’s hand slaps over his mouth.  
  
“Don’t even think about making a dog joke,” he says.  
  
Stiles’ eyes narrow in a sarcastic glare. He slowly peels away the hand. “I think I deserve a couple dog jokes.”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes and pulls his hand back. “You get two. Use them wisely.”  
  
They climb out of the car and head towards the brick office. There are no other cars in the parking lot. In the office itself, there are the typical pamphlets about caring for pets, the uncomfortable straight-backed waiting chairs, and an empty receptionist’s desk. There’s something just a little off when they stop at the front of the office. The walls themselves are giving off energy, buzzing with a low hum. It’s as though they’re alive, in the same way plants are alive.  
  
Derek directs them towards the swinging half-door installed into the counter. Stiles takes a deep breath and pushes it open. They make their way back into the exam room, Derek encouraging him every time he pauses in his step. When they round the corner and push open the door, a man is standing off center, waiting. “Deaton,” Derek says and jumps to sit on the nearest counter. “This is Stiles. I’m sure Scott’s called you by now.”  
  
“He has,” Deaton says, not taking his eyes off Stiles. Stiles shifts and scratches his arms, feeling itchy and uncomfortable under the inscrutable gaze. “He’s human,” he says, no trace of a question in his short chopped words.  
  
Derek nods. “A little on the puny side.”  
  
Stiles sniffs. “And you’re a great conversationalist,” he snarks back. Derek flashes him a grin.  
  
Deaton looks between the two and rolls his eyes. “What can I help you with Stiles?”  
  
For once, Stiles is at a loss for words. He can’t figure out how to explain what’s been going on. He doesn’t know if he should start with just today, or the hallucinations, or the curiosity and contentment he’s feeling right now. Those aren’t his feelings. He still has a small tinge of anger and resignation looming around him. “I have no idea where to start,” he says.  
  
“From the beginning?” Deaton suggests, leaning against the metal counter.  
  
“Yeah, that doesn’t really help.”  
  
Derek taps his fingers against the counter. Stiles watches and waits before Derek takes over speaking. He nearly sighs in relief. Derek says, “He knows what we are. It’s not guesswork. He genuinely knows. He even knows Allison’s a hunter, so it’s not just sensing supernatural creatures. He’s had hallucinations, visions, whatever. He first tried to attribute them to side effects of medications, but I’m not so sure about that.”  
  
Deaton blinks and doesn’t move his eyes away from where Stiles still stands in the threshold. He pulls out the rolling desk chair near him and places it a few feet from himself. Then he motions Stiles to sit. With a quick glance at how relaxed Derek still is, he slowly makes his way into the room. Only once Stiles is sitting does Deaton speak. “What do you know about magic, Stiles?”  
  
Stiles shrugs. “Isn’t magic only something science can’t yet explain?”  
  
That gets a cryptic grin from Deaton and considering head nod from Derek. “In some cases, yes. But not all.”  
  
Stiles narrows his eyes. “You get a kick out of being as obscure as possible, don’t you?”  
  
Deaton actually laughs. “He is exceptionally observant. You didn’t mention that, Derek.”  
  
“I’m sitting right here,” Stiles says. “Is this what a girl feels like when people only look at her breasts?” Deaton looks at him skeptically, and behind Deaton, Derek shoots an eyebrow up. Stiles shrugs at him. Derek puts his forefinger to his lips. Stiles shakes his head, expressing how unlikely it is that he’ll stop the snark. Derek makes a cutting motion across his neck with his hand. Stiles clasps both of his hands over his heart and gives him the cheesiest smile he can.  
  
“Children,” Deaton says, his patience apparently wearing thin enough to interrupt.  
  
“Right,” Stiles says, clapping his hands together and shaking off the amusement. “So magic.”  
  
“Yes, magic,” Deaton says, moving back to his position against the counter so he can see both Derek and Stiles. “It’s not quite science in the sense that we can run physical experiments and get the same results. Magic is too variable, too individual, to be reduced to any form of definition. Think of it like your soul.”  
  
Stiles keeps nodding along as Deaton speaks until he just shakes his head. “Pretty much what you just said is you don’t know hidden in something that sounds like an explanation but isn’t. Are all druids like this?” he asks, directing the question to Derek.  
  
Deaton looks almost proud as Derek nearly loses his balance and his foot bangs against a metal cabinet. He’s incredulous. “It took us nearly a full year and a couple of ritual sacrifices before we figured that out. How did you know?”  
  
Stiles shrugs. “It’s just a feeling. Like how I know you’re a werewolf. Or how I know Danny’s a hedgewitch, although I probably should have guessed that when I found the roses in the back seat of the car. Or how I know that Lydia’s a banshee. He’s a druid. It’s a feeling. Now answer the question.”  
  
Derek throws out his arms in confused frustration. “I don’t know. I’ve met two others. One’s his sister, and the other one tried to kill us all.”  
  
Stiles nods, half in humor half in attempt to make sense of everything. “How’d that work out for her?”  
  
Derek shrugs. “Peter ripped out her throat.”  
  
Stiles spins in the chair, ignoring the amused look on Deaton’s face as they banter. The room blurs a little as he completes the spin and stops back in the position he started. “You know, I was about to use how I know your uncle’s absolutely crazy as an example, but I don’t think it counts as intuition if you have a long list of circumstances that only points to crazy.” Derek snorts and Stiles smiles. “Take two on explaining magic, then?” he asks, once again talking to Deaton. He swears he gets an eye roll.  
  
“Everyone has a soul,” Deaton starts, and the sour look on Stiles’ face seems to make him change tactics slightly. “It’s like a spark inside you. That spark may or may not manifest itself. It depends upon the individual. Most of the time, it doesn’t manifest unless there’s some sort of catalyst. I’d say ninety-five percent of the time, the spark never manifests, but that’s just a rough guess. The spark itself can reject magic, almost like an allergic reaction. If the magic is already manifesting in some form, or if the spark itself just refuses the catalyst, it may reject any additional magic.” Something about Stiles’ expression makes Deaton backtrack. “Take werewolves for example. They’re, well, not necessarily common, but apparent enough that some form of scientific conclusions can be drawn.  
  
“A werewolf can either be born or bitten,” Deaton speaks slowly like Stiles is struggling with the concept. He gets a pinched look and a head nudge to keep going. “A bite acts as the catalyst. The spark then manifests as a werewolf, or in rare cases, some other supernatural creature. Or the spark rejects the bite, the catalyst, and the bitten person dies.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t miss the discomfort and the shifting that Derek does where he’s sitting on the counter. He switches his attention to attempt to read one of the informational posters on the brick wall as he thinks. “So if you’re traumatized as a kid, you’re going to grow up to be a sorcerer or whatever?”  
  
“No.” Deaton is unimpressed. He folds his arms and watches Stiles’ attention wander. It snaps back when he starts once again to talk. “For instance, a born wolf’s magic will begin to manifest any time after conception. A born werewolf can develop any time while in the womb up to two years after birth. There’s nothing necessarily traumatizing as a catalyst. Or at least, not one that’s been found yet. Most often, the wolf develops in the womb. It causes subtle variations in the pregnancy and is therefore possible to detect. Sometimes magic can be genetic, like in the case of werewolves. Do you know of magic within your family?”  
  
Stiles shrugs and tries to think. “I highly doubt there’s anything magical about my dad, unless you count his ability to hide chip bags in the house without me finding them. But for my mom.” He stops, trying to keep in mind everything Dr. Young told him. It’s okay to think about her. It’s okay to talk about her. “I honestly don’t know with my mom. Most of my memories of her are when she was sick. Wait,” he says, stilling. “Can magic—does magic affect your health? Can it make you sick?”  
  
Deaton raises an eyebrow, like he wants to point out that he just said magic can kill someone. He doesn’t say it. Instead he asks, “Care to expand that?”  
  
Stiles very deliberately turns the chair away from Derek’s confusion. He focuses only on Deaton as he tries to rephrase his question. “Can the magic have similar symptoms to a disease? And then can that person be misdiagnosed?” It hurts to think about, this tiny sliver of hope followed by a mountain of despair as he tries desperately not to give in to this idea. The idea forming at the back of his head, slowly eating up any sense of calm.  
  
Only Deaton’s hesitance and side-to-side swaying temporarily stop the consuming idea. “Yes and no,” he says. “You’ve met Lydia.” It’s not phrased as a question, but he waits for Stiles to nod. “You haven’t met Meredith, correct?” Stiles’ confusion seems to act as answer enough. “They’re both banshees. Lydia likes to not so affectionately call her abilities voices in her head. To some, most who don’t quite understand the diagnosis, this might lead to them believing she’s schizophrenic. That’s not the case. Meredith, however, has actually been diagnosed with schizophrenia. She would be schizophrenic even if she weren’t a banshee. It’s possible that someone could be misdiagnosed in certain cases, but that’s not very likely.”  
  
There’s a chill that runs down his spine and into the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know if he should feel relieved or devastated, that nothing could have changed his past. It comes bubbling up when Deaton still looks nonplussed as he leans against the cold metal. Then Deaton keeps talking. “This is one of the issues with trying to associate magic with science. We could talk about neurochemistry and genetics, physical and mental side effects, until I’ve got gray hair.” He seems to snort at the joke. “But it doesn’t work like that. They’re exclusive. If you have a preexisting condition, the magic is not the one that caused the condition. It may aggravate a certain condition, but it doesn’t substitute for that condition. You’re still human. You still have that body, including its, in essence, defects.”  
  
Stiles grips his knees and leans forward in the chair, his head coming downward until his chin nearly hits his chest. “Then what about werewolves or whatever else there is out there? I saw the gash Allison made on Peter’s head. It was healed. What happened?”  
  
“We’re not human,” Derek says simply. He’s still sitting quietly, his legs swinging out and coming to a stop before they hit the cabinet again. “Part of being a werewolf is the biological change and a heightened ability to heal. Before Scott became a werewolf, he had severe asthma. He still has asthma, but the wolf heals him before the attack becomes severe or even noticeable. Erica still has seizures as a wolf sometimes when she’s placed in an environment that aggravates her condition.”  
  
And that hurts. That makes Stiles run through scenario after scenario of the people he could have saved, the life he could have led. The life they could have led. And now it’s too late because they’re dead and he’s not, and he’s stuck here hearing about the possibility that he could have saved his mother if only he knew. “My mom,” he chokes out, having to ask. Pleading to know if he truly helped kill her. “She—would she have been okay? I mean, she—”  
  
Derek jumps down from the counter and is in front of Stiles in a heartbeat. He pulls him off the chair and into a hug that reminds Stiles of his dad. “No Stiles,” he says. “I don’t know. If someone’s sick, if it’s fatal, the only thing it would have done was prolong it. That even means prolonging her suffering. There’s a limit. Even werewolves get cancer. Erica could still have a seizure that could kill her. All the bite does is reduce that likelihood, but it’s still very much possible. If I were shot straight in the heart, point blank, I’d die. I’d die almost immediately. We’re not invincible, and we’re not a cure.”  
  
Still with his face buried in Derek’s shirt, Stiles tries to rearrange all the information, make sense of it, categorize it, slot what he can into the missing pieces of the rest of his knowledge base, find out how it fits together. He clings to the steady stream of emotions in front of him, the touch and the warmth that help calm him in tiny increments. Above him, he can feel Derek look up at Deaton. “How come you never tell us this much?” Derek says.  
  
He doesn’t even need to look to see the enigmatic smirk on Deaton’s face. “You never ask.” Derek huffs in exasperation. “You never ask the right questions,” Deaton edits.  
  
This gets Stiles to perk up a little, hesitantly pushing away from Derek. He turns back to the vet. “Speaking of questions,” he says, sticking close to Derek. “Let’s go back to why I’m here in the first place. What am I?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Deaton says. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t know everything. I would like to try something, though.” He crosses the room to the cabinet Derek kicked and starts rummaging through it, pulling out small glass bottles including one that contains black powder that looks exactly like the powder Danny had been carrying earlier. Deaton thrusts the bottle into Stiles’ hands and pulls Derek back. “Make a circle with that on the ground. While you do so, I want you to think about how nothing outside the circle will touch you. Believe that nothing outside the circle can touch you.”  
  
Stiles squints an eye at him and looks back down at the powder. There’s not much ash in the tiny vial. “What?” he asks.  
  
Ever patient, Deaton says, “Just put some in your palm, close your eyes, and make a circle. Just remember to believe.”  
  
Stiles looks over at Derek, who behind the impassive mask is watching in anticipation. When Derek nods at him to tell him it’s okay, it’s safe, Stiles uncorks the bottle and pours half the contents into his palm. It doesn’t look like much. With one last glance at where Deaton and Derek stand, he closes his eyes. He thinks of his dad, his hugs, his smile, the derisive snorts when Stiles tells him something ridiculous or runs his mouth so long it gets ahead of him. He thinks of the hug with Derek, the calm. He thinks of Heather and Caitlyn, their bickering and snickering and arguing. He thinks of finding a home. Finding home. And he feels safe. Slowly he walks in a small arc until he knows that he’s completed the circle. He opens his eyes.  
  
Deaton nudges Derek forward. “You know what to do,” he says. Derek walks with his arm outstretched and his whole body moves over the powder line right into the circle. Given the look of confusion, Stiles thinks it shouldn’t have worked that way. “Interesting,” Deaton says. He comes forward to walk across the line as well. His foot is halfway through a step, and it looks like he’s hit a wall. Derek jumps, and on instinct pulls Stiles toward him. “Very interesting,” he says as he takes a step back. “Tell me Stiles, what were you thinking about when you made this circle?”  
  
He shrugs. “I know you said to think that nothing outside the circle could touch me, but that seemed a bit lonely. So I just thought about feeling safe instead.” He reaches down to the line of thick powder and wipes his hand through it, breaking the circle. When he stands up, he crosses his arms. “So?” he says.  
  
Deaton looks pained. “It’s not conclusive—”  
  
Stiles uncrosses his arms almost solely to mime wringing a neck. “You said not ten minutes ago that magic couldn’t be quantified scientifically. Humor me.”  
  
“Best guess,” Deaton pauses as Stiles nods for him to continue. “You’re an Empath.”  
  
Stiles glares. “Are you calling me emotional?”  
  
“Not quite,” Deaton says, with the slightest hint of a chuckle. He puts up a single finger in request that they wait as he walks out of the exam room. (“I hate you,” Stiles says to the vet’s retreating back. Derek nudges him gently with his elbow.) He returns a moment later holding a large thick book that he hands to Stiles. “Here. Think of this like an encyclopedia.”  
  
“A beastiary?” Stiles asks.  
  
“Yes. Now if you two could kindly leave, I have a five o’clock appointment, and I need to vacuum.”

\---

Neither of them speaks during the first half of the drive to the sheriff’s station. Stiles sits in the passenger’s seat, curled around the book, as Derek looks forward. It’s not uncomfortable. He feels drained and grateful that he doesn’t have to talk. Halfway there, Stiles sits up a bit straighter, taking his feet off the chair and stretching out a little. “I just remembered,” he says. Derek glances at him before turning back to the road. “Today’s Halloween.”  
  
Derek nods. “The high schoolers usually put on a big rave every year to celebrate. Did you want to go?”  
  
Stiles shakes his head, big broad side to side sweeps. He takes a deep breath and concentrates on staying calm. It surprisingly works, almost jolting him into a different kind of panic, but he pushes it down. “They’re having it at your place, right?”  
  
Derek shrugs. “I own a loft in the industrial park. I don’t live there. I let them use it so we don’t have to go looking for the party we know they’d have anyway. We’ll patrol the area, keep track of all the cars, and break it up around midnight. It’s safer than the alternative. There’ll be small parties here and there, but we’ve got most of the force on duty tonight so we can take care of it.”  
  
Beacon Hills crawls by the window, the factories closing down for the evening, and they get stuck in what little rush hour a town of twenty-six thousand can produce. Stiles puts his head on the cool glass of the window and watches. There’s a man tapping out his own drum solo on his steering wheel. A woman unwraps a sandwich at one of the few stoplights in town. There’s a family of four all singing along to something. A man in a pick up truck with his dog halfway out the open window. Stiles sees his opportunity. “Hey,” he says and points. “Have you ever done that? Is it nearly as fun as it looks?”  
  
Derek snorts and turns onto the station’s crossroad. “That’s one. Was it worth it?”  
  
“Not if all it got was a snort. Especially not if you had to ask.”  
  
“You have one left. I’d be careful with it.” With that, they pull into the back parking lot of the sheriff’s station. They both get out of the SUV and walk towards the employee entrance. “I’ll take you to pick up your jeep later. I figured you’d be eager to talk to Jordan first.”  
  
Stiles picks up the pace, and they enter through a hallway that leads into the kitchen. They move through the small cluster of deputies complaining loudly about the broken coffee maker and one of the accountants complainingly loudly right back about budget cuts. His dad isn’t at his desk, so Stiles sets down the book Deaton gave him and jerks his thumb at the sheriff’s office. Derek nods and motions him towards it. When he knocks, there’s a light answer and Stiles enters. Sheriff Parrish looks genuinely surprised to see him. “Stiles, sit down,” he says from behind a pile of paperwork.  
  
Instead of sitting, he makes sure the door is shut before he asks, “Does my dad know?” He pauses for Parrish to set down his pen. “Does my dad know that Derek is a werewolf and Chris Argent is a hunter? Does my dad know what’s really going on in this town?”  
  
“Yes,” the sheriff says without hesitation. “It’s part of training. In order to best do their job, all the deputies on staff know what really goes on in Beacon Hills. Leaving people in the dark tends to get them killed. With that knowledge, we have a fighting chance. And this time we’re winning.”  
  
“What’s bringing them here?” Stiles asks, sifting through what Allison told him in the bathroom on his first day at school. “There’s something bringing all these people, creatures, whatever, to Beacon Hills. Allison told me they were cults, but I guess that’s the PC terminology. What attracts them here?”  
  
“The Nemeton,” Parrish says, once again without hesitation. Stiles is starting to like him. He’s straight-forward and doesn’t look like he’s about to coddle Stiles. “It’s a tree that’s essentially the epicenter of the magical currents that run through the town. About a year ago, someone started sacrificing people to give the tree more power. Since then, people, creatures, whatever, have come to use the Nemeton’s power. We handle the situations as they come up.” Parrish looks at the piles of folders and groans. “I should get back to work. Do you have any other questions?”  
  
“Is he safe?” Stiles asks.  
  
Sheriff Parrish shrugs. “As safe as he’ll ever be in a town like this. I can’t guarantee that your dad won’t be in danger, but we’ve gotten pretty damn good at taking care of our own.” He pulls a folder off the top of the stack.  
  
Satisfied at least with the information he got, Stiles leaves. The first thing he spots outside the office is his dad examining the book Stiles had put on his desk. “What’s this, son?” Skylar asks and hands it over to Stiles’ grabby fingers.  
  
“Just a bit of light reading,” he says and sets the book back down. His dad pulls him in for a quick hug before releasing him and sitting down at his desk.  
  
“I’ve gotta work tonight,” Skylar says as Stiles sits next to him in the extra chair that’s become part of his dad’s area. The chair wasn’t there one day so Stiles, in plain view of the rest of the deputies, grabbed Chris’ fancier and newer desk chair and hauled it over instead. Ever since then, nobody has moved his chair. “I don’t know if you want to go home alone, but I can’t really say that you can stay here. We’re going to be busy.”  
  
“I’ll stay with him,” Derek says from empty desk next to Skylar’s. “I’m on call in case anything happens in the preserve, but other than that, I’m free.” He raises his eyebrows at Skylar and waits for him to nod. He stands in one fluid motion. “We’ll pick up your car at the high school on the way.”  
  
Stiles smiles and nods. He picks up the book, gives his dad one last quick hug, and follows Derek out of the station. They talk on their way to Derek’s SUV, and Stiles thinks that spending Halloween with a friend sounds like the best plan yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving update for those who care: Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. At least it's pretty.
> 
> ETA: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I HAVE NO LIFE RIGHT NOW AT ALL. AT. ALL. I'm working on preliminary research for my thesis because my advisor wants me to be able to defend before a couple major conferences so I can present at them. Which means that whenever I finish class work and finish up teaching, I'm working on that. The best chance for writing that I might have within the next few months will be small pockets of time. I don't want to give up on this story, though. I love it. It kept me sane when I was worried we'd be homeless. So we'll see. I hope soon. But no guarantees.


	8. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates on my life

Hey everyone still interested in reading this even though it hasn't been updated in a year and a half:

The past 15 months have been really hard. We were homeless for part of it, and that was really difficult. Fortunately, we were able to spend most of that time sleeping on our friends' floor. So we had a roof over our heads.

I was diagnosed with a heart condition. Immediately after that, I got a lung infection and had to go to the hospital. That was not fun and was incredibly expensive. I had insurance from my job, but still.

I really want to continue to work on this, and I fully intend to. Just give me a couple more months to figure out my life. It looks like we'll be moving again at the end of July. I thought moving a state away would be a pain. Now we're going to be moving over halfway across the country. I hope to start updating this again in April. I've already got the next 3 chapters figured out. I just need to find time that I don't have right now in order to actually write them.

Thanks for being patient. And thank you so much for your interest in this story. I'm very grateful.  
  
_____

 

YOOOOO! GUESS WHAT Y'ALL! THIS THING IS GONNA GET UPDATED. WOOO! THE HALLOWEEN SPECIAL THAT'S BEEN A YEAR+ IN THE MAKING IS ON ITS WAY SOON.

 

Also I have more life updates. Like getting out of a shitty awful relationship that took me away from the rest of my family and I'm now moved back from halfway across the country. I took the cat with me.


End file.
